I grab my jacket from the table and zip it up, and I'm out the door before she can truly stop me. She'll eat the bread when I get back too. And thank me. This isn't a world where standing by your morals always pays off.
Rather, it never does.
The ash lands on me, dusting my jacket with the stuff. I roll my eyes at it, and push a stray lock of pale blue hair behind my ear. The streets are teeming with people, but that's to be expected. Everyone who lives around here is used to the ash. We may hate it, but there's nothing unusual about it.
Something is always burning, the ash always falls.
I dip into a back alley and along the paths that'll lead to the closest bakery I know of where the baker will deal with the Arts in exchange for bread. Everyone learns who is willing to make a trade and who is more likely to hand someone over to the enforcers, never to be seen again. People change their minds all the time, but it's a risk I'm willing to take. Especially if it means feeding my sister tonight.
My knock echoes loudly on the bakery's back door. It swings open, revealing the portly baker with his ruddy red cheeks.
"Raine," he says as a way of greeting.
"Smythe," I return. "Need anything?" There's no point beating around the bush. Even without saying the words, he knows what I mean. Anyone living in the city knows how to talk about illegal things without saying it.
"No. And you shouldn't be asking, there are enforcers around tonight." He slams the door in my face.
Great. There are other places I can try, but it's going to get risky if I have to ask more people.
I set back off into the darkening evening. The ash has that effect, making it difficult to make out what's happening in the gloom.
Main street is lined with boarded-up shops. No one wants to own them here, not when there are enforcers walking up and down at all times of day.
I scan the street for them. Smythe says they're out in force, but I can't see any more than usual. There's two over by the old boarded-up tavern, but they're hardly paying any attention to the people on the street.
Hardly out in droves.
A scowl crosses over my face. If Smythe has found someone who does a better deal, then I'm surprised. A loaf or two of bread in exchange for using the Arts is nothing.
I push those thoughts to the side. What does it matter if Smythe has changed his mind about the Arts? The reason behind it isn't important to me, and it shouldn't be.
The most important tip to staying alive in the city, is to keep my attention on my own problems, and my own interests. No one else's.
I turn down the next street, wrinkling my nose at the size of the ash pile which has made itself known outside the miller's house. I don't know him very well, but I've heard he's willing to trade when the occasion calls for it. Given the size of the pile, it does.
I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and rap on the front door a few times.
It swings open almost instantly, and a thin wiry man looks at me with leery eyes.
Neither of us say anything, but that doesn't mean a transaction isn't taking place. He nods once, then shuts the door again.
I turn back to the pile of ash and roll up my sleeves. I check around for any enforcers, but they don't seem to have come into sight of the street I'm on. Hopefully it'll stay that way. I'm not in the mood to get hurt. I touch the Nazar charm around my wrist for good luck. Grandfather gave it to me before he disappeared. He said he got it from an old woman who claimed to have travelled around the entire world. I'm not sure about that. Or about the protection powers she told him it has. But it reminds me of him, and sometimes, it's nice to think he's watching over me, particularly when I'm about to do something dangerous.
The Arts crackle to life, covering my hands with the sizzle of power. I'm not sure where they come from, or how it works, but I never feel more alive than when I'm calling on them.
I check for guards once more, before turning my attention to the ash. It only takes me a few minutes to get into the swing of things, and the ash soon changes form into a pile of dark grey bricks. I can't make it disappear completely, that's not how the Arts work, but I can change the ash's shape so it isn't in the way as much. And so that it can be moved when the time is right.
Once all of the ash has been turned into bricks, I step back and dust off my hands, letting the Arts fade away. Yet another day breaking the rules and not getting caught.
The door opens behind me, and I turn around in time to find it closing already. But that's not what is important. A bag of flour sits on the doorstep, not yet covered in ash. It isn't bread, but it means we can make it, and that's the next best thing.
I hurry over and scoop it up, hiding it inside my jacket. I doubt anyone will try and steal it on my way back home, and I know for certain that no one will bother asking me where I got it from, but sometimes it's better to be safe than sorry.
The ash is falling thicker now. The dragons must have burned a lot tonight. A shiver runs down my spine. It's only a matter of time until they move on to our part of the city. Hopefully when
