The morning sun had barely cleared the city walls when Nyelle slipped through the front door, casting a final glance at Elina kneading dough by the hearth. Her mother had been reluctant to let her out alone after her illness, but Nyelle had pleaded convincingly—an easy task for someone who had once talked millionaires out of their retirement funds.
"Just to the market and back," she'd promised. "I need fresh air."
The cobblestone streets of Lower Yorkton buzzed with early activity. Apprentices hurried toward workshops, housewives gathered at the communal well, and carts rumbled toward the central market. Nyelle paused at the corner of their street, orienting herself in this unfamiliar city.
She had no intention of going to the market. After six days confined to the Harringer home, she needed to understand this world—its geography, its economy, its opportunities.
A tall church spire rose in the distance, and Nyelle headed toward it. Height would provide perspective. The streets narrowed as she walked, the buildings leaning toward one another as if sharing secrets. Animal waste and rotting vegetable matter formed malodorous piles in the gutters. The stench was overwhelming after days in the relatively clean Harringer home.
"Moved quick for someone fresh off her deathbed," came a voice from behind.
Nyelle spun around, instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. Aerik stood grinning, arms crossed over his chest.
"Did Mother send you to spy on me?" she demanded.
"Mother thinks you're at the market." Aerik's expression grew serious. "I know better than to believe you stay where you're told."
"I'm just exploring."
"In the wrong direction." He gestured back the way they'd come. "Market's that way, little phantom."
The nickname gave her pause. *Little phantom*. Had the real Nyelle earned that through some behavior Nirei should know about?
"Maybe I wasn't going to the market," she admitted, watching his reaction.
Aerik sighed. "And maybe the tannery master will sprout wings." He nudged her shoulder. "Come on. If you're determined to wander, at least let me show you the interesting parts."
Reluctantly, Nyelle fell into step beside him. His guidance was valuable—she needed to map this city quickly if she was going to survive here.
"Shouldn't you be at work?" she asked.
"Half-day," Aerik explained. "Master Fenwick's meeting with the Tanners' Guild."
They turned down a side street where the buildings grew slightly more prosperous—still modest, but with intact shutters and small window boxes sprouting herbs.
"Craftsmen's Row," Aerik said, pointing out different shops. "Candle-maker, cooper, silversmith—though he mainly fixes pots for locals, not making fancy things like uptown."
Nyelle absorbed every detail, cataloging information with a con artist's precision. The hierarchy of districts, the flow of commerce, the subtle indicators of status—all valuable data.
They emerged into a small square where a fountain bubbled weakly, its stone basin chipped but clean. Children played nearby, monitored by mothers washing clothes in communal basins.
"You look different," Aerik said suddenly, studying her face. "Since the fever."
Nyelle tensed. Had he somehow sensed the impostor behind his sister's eyes?
"How?" she asked carefully.
"Like you're seeing everything for the first time." He shrugged. "And you watch people strangely."
*Dangerously perceptive.* Nirei had always assessed people by their financial value—a habit apparently visible even in this child's body.
"The fever changed things," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Some memories are... fuzzy."
Aerik accepted this with a nod, though doubt lingered in his eyes. They continued walking, passing through increasingly busy streets until reaching the market square—a chaotic assortment of stalls, carts, and blankets spread with merchandise beneath a cacophony of hawkers' cries.
"Remember when we used to help old Derna sell her eggs?" Aerik asked, nodding toward an elderly woman arranging small brown eggs in precise rows.
Nyelle made a noncommittal sound, filing away another detail about the real Nyelle's past.
She studied the market's organization with professional interest. Bread and produce occupied the northern section, meats and fish to the east, household goods and textiles to the south. City guards patrolled the perimeter, their red-and-gold uniforms marking them as imperial authority.
"Wait here," Aerik said, spotting someone in the crowd. "Need to speak with Tomas about tomorrow's delivery."
As Aerik moved away, Nyelle seized the opportunity. She slipped between stalls into the thick of the market, her small size an advantage as she navigated the forest of adult legs. A fruit vendor argued with a well-dressed customer over the price of imported oranges—a luxury, judging by the interaction. A jewelry merchant displayed copper bracelets and tin pendants to giggling servant girls spending their meager wages.
Nyelle paused near a baker's stall, watching a plump woman arrange sweet buns on a cloth-covered table. The scent made her stomach growl. Without conscious decision, Nirei's instincts surfaced—a mark identified, a con forming.
She approached the stall, arranging her features into the picture of wide-eyed innocence.
"Those smell wonderful," she said, voice pitched perfectly between wistful and timid.
The baker woman glanced down, her expression softening at the sight of a small, thin child. "Best in the market, they are."
"My mother used to make sweet buns before she got sick," Nyelle improvised, letting her eyes grow slightly shiny with unshed tears. "Today's her Birthday, and I wanted to surprise her, but..."
She trailed off, looking down as if embarrassed.
"Short on coin, are you?" The baker's voice gentled further.
Nyelle nodded miserably. "Father said we need medicine more than treats." She turned as if to leave. "I shouldn't have bothered you."
"Wait, child." The baker glanced around, then quickly wrapped a bun in a scrap of cloth. "Take this. No mother should go without sweetness on her Birthday."
"Really?" Nyelle made her eyes widen in practiced gratitude. "Thank you so much! Mother will be so happy!"
She clutched the bundle, backing away with a perfect blend of excitement and humility. Three stalls over, she allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. The con had worked flawlessly—different world, same human vulnerabilities.
A strong hand clamped onto her shoulder. "What was that about Mother's Birthday?"
Aerik's voice carried a sharp edge Nyelle hadn't heard before. She turned to face him, automatically shifting to a defensive posture.
"You were watching?" she asked, unable to hide her surprise. Nirei had rarely been caught in a con.
"I never lost sight of you." His expression was thunderous. "Birthdays not for four months, and Mother doesn't like sweet buns—makes her stomach ache. You know that."
Nyelle fought the urge to run. Being discovered mid-scheme was dangerous territory. "It was just a story."
"A lie, you mean." Aerik's fingers tightened on her shoulder. "Since when do you trick honest workers for food? We're not starving, Nyelle."
"The opportunity was there," she said, the honesty slipping out before she could stop it.
Aerik stared at her, genuine hurt crossing his features. "That's not how Father raised us."
The disappointment in his voice struck an unfamiliar chord. Nirei had never cared what marks thought of him—their opinions were irrelevant once their money was in his accounts. But Aerik's reaction felt different—it *mattered*, somehow.
"It's just a bun," she muttered, uncomfortable with the strange feelings swirling in her chest.
"It's not about the bun." Aerik took it from her hand. "It's about us. Harringers work for what we have. We don't steal, and we don't lie to good people."
He marched her back to the baker's stall, where he returned the bun with a sincere apology, explaining his sister had been ill and wasn't herself. The baker's initial anger softened at his obvious embarrassment.
"Keep her home until her head's right," the woman advised, accepting the returned bun.
The walk back through the market was silent, Aerik's hand firmly on Nyelle's shoulder. She could have broken away—Nirei knew a dozen ways to escape a physical hold—but something kept her in place. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the novel experience of being held accountable.
"How did you know where I went?" she asked finally, as they left the market behind.
"You always do the same head-tilt when you're about to do something foolish," Aerik said, his voice still tight. "Some things haven't changed with your fever."
They walked several more blocks before he spoke again. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but that's not who we are, Nyelle. Father works his hands bloody so we never have to steal. Mother sews by candlelight until her eyes burn. And you'd shame them for a sweet bun?"
His words landed like physical blows. In Nirei's world, everyone was fair game—marks existed to be exploited by those clever enough to see their weaknesses. But Aerik's worldview operated on different principles, ones that somehow made Nyelle feel small in ways her child's body didn't.
They reached a small park where a copse of trees provided shelter from the midday sun. Aerik directed her to a wooden bench.
"Sit," he ordered, dropping beside her. "We're not going home until we sort this out."
Nyelle perched on the edge of the bench, calculating her options. The truth was impossible. A lie seemed inadequate against Aerik's piercing gaze.
"I don't know who I am anymore," she said finally, surprising herself with the truth of it.
Aerik's anger faltered. "The fever?"
"Maybe." She stared at her small hands. "Everything feels... different. Like I'm wearing someone else's skin."
The irony of the statement wasn't lost on her.
"Father says illnesses can change people," Aerik said, his tone softening. "But our choices define us, Nyelle. Not our circumstances."
For a moment, she glimpsed the man Aerik would become—thoughtful, principled, solid in his convictions. Nothing like the self-serving creature Nirei had been.
"I'm sorry," she said, testing the unfamiliar words. In his entire adult life, Nirei had never apologized sincerely for anything.
Aerik studied her face, then nodded slowly. "I believe you. But if something's wrong—if you're struggling—talk to me. Don't become someone Father would be ashamed of."
The walk home was quieter, but less tense. Aerik pointed out landmarks—the temple where community ceremonies were held, the public baths where copper coins bought hot water once a week, the night watchman's post where lost children could seek help.
Listening to him, Nyelle began to understand that Nirei's approach to life—taking what he wanted regardless of consequences—wouldn't work here. This wasn't a world of anonymous transactions and disposable relationships. Actions had lasting repercussions in a community where people knew your name and your family's reputation.
Near home, they passed a group of children playing with hoops and sticks. One boy, slightly older than Nyelle's apparent age, caught her eye and sneered.
"It's Harringer's runt," he called to his friends. "Heard she nearly died. Would've been one less mouth in their house."
Aerik stiffened beside her. Nyelle felt an unfamiliar heat rise to her face—not the calculated anger Nirei employed strategically, but something more primal.
"Ignore him," Aerik muttered, taking her arm. "Tanner's son thinks having a stone house makes him better than everyone."
"Who is he?" Nyelle asked, memorizing the boy's face.
"Devin Blackwell. His father owns three tanneries, including where I work." Aerik tightened his grip. "Leave it, Nyelle. We can't afford trouble with the Blackwells."
She filed the information away. In Nirei's experience, everyone had vulnerabilities—it was simply a matter of finding them.
When they reached home, Elina looked up from her sewing, surprise crossing her face. "You're back early," she said to Aerik. "And you," she added, eyeing Nyelle, "were meant to bring back onions."
Aerik smoothly produced a small sack. "Got them for her. She's still recovering her strength."
The easy lie—told to protect her, not exploit—caught Nyelle off guard. Aerik met her eyes briefly, a silent message passing between them. *Family protects family.*
That evening, as Torvald returned from the docks and the family gathered for dinner, Nyelle watched their interactions through new eyes. The genuine affection, the shared burdens, the unspoken understanding that flowed between them—it created a system of mutual support unlike anything in Nirei's experience.
Later, as Aerik prepared his sleeping pallet, he paused beside Nyelle's mattress.
"Tomorrow I'll show you better ways to get what you need," he said quietly. "Ways that won't make Father ashamed when he hears of them."
"I'd like that," she replied, surprising herself with her sincerity.
As she drifted toward sleep, Nyelle wondered which was the greater challenge—learning to navigate this medieval world or learning to operate by its unfamiliar moral code. Nirei had been adept at exploiting systems for personal gain. Existing within them, contributing rather than extracting—that was unfamiliar territory.
She rolled onto her side, watching the dying embers in the hearth. Devin Blackwell's sneering face appeared in her mind. Tomorrow she'd explore Yorkton's streets again—and perhaps begin identifying weaknesses in those who deserved exploitation.
The con artist's instincts hadn't vanished entirely. They'd simply found a new focus.