Royals - Vivian G
I hate Mondays.
On Mondays the village is crowded, slick with the stench of sweaty, stinking bodies glistening from morning work. The market is bustling today, so busy I am able to slip through the crowd and nick a trinket or two. My fingers dart through pockets, taking things. Treasures that catch my eye. Little snippets of gold, poking out of pockets and bags. These things, these objects are far more interesting to me than humans. Their stories are much different. My new jewelled necklace, for instance, glittering on a wealthy woman’s creamy, smooth neck, has seen everything. To just hold it between my fingers is like I’m grasping a life, a story, and that is all it takes to set my imagination off. That is the only good thing about today.
I have to hold my breath to escape from the smell. I press my hands over my nose and clench my teeth, breathing in and out. My hand brushes another velvet skirt pocket, and keeping my face neutral as stone, I slip my fingers inside and feel around. My skin touches something sharp - I bring my hand out, and I’m holding a small, carefully shaped bird statue, carved from crystal. I wonder where it came from. I think my sister, Snow, would adore it. I’ll give it to her, once I get home. A little light in a world of darkness.
My little sister makes clothes. She has a job in the village making beautiful dresses and coats and things. Her little fingers weave their magic with thread, darting through the soft fabric and linen. When they are finished, they always look so pretty, delicate at her touch. A dress of velvet, boots of polished leather, a coat of fur. She made me boots once, they were red and comfortable inside. Her fabrics tinkle with jewels. Although she pours her heart into her clothes, the money is scarce. She receives one small coin a week. We keep Snow's earnings in a jar in the kitchen.
At least her talent is better than mine. Snow is very pretty, with the softest skin and eyes you have ever seen, and white hair. That was how she got her name. Snow.
I am rough and boyish and my fingers are caked with dirt and grime. I’m like a boy even though I'm a girl and my name is Bena - it’s just be my hair that gives me away. My only skill is pickpocketing, and my hair is a bright auburn. I am not as likeable as my sister is.
I run into a shaded corner and watch the people go by, skin against skin, bodies pressed against bodies, lips moving, muffled words. My mouth is working on a polished red apple, and my pockets are full of jewellery and gold. I am a pickpocket. That is my skill, my artistry. I’m not jealous of Snow - I love her more than anything. Even though since she was born it was like I didn’t exist at all. I’m not trying to sound dramatic, but it’s just little things I’ve noticed, like my mother’s tiny affections towards Snow, kind compliments and hugs and warm toast. She even brushes Snow’s hair every day. But with me she storms and snaps and yells. It’s as if she can’t stand me. Like she wishes I had never come into the world.
The market deflates, with everyone closing up their stalls for today. I leap into the crowd and manage to steal a rolling gold wristwatch, cold against my skin. A pair of diamond earrings find their way into my pockets with the rest of the collection, and I take a fat stack of cash peeking out from someone's handbag.
The merchants are distracted, careless. It's easy for me to take whatever I want from their wares. The people never notice a small hand reaching inside their bag or wallet, and they certainly don't realise at all that their things are missing. Some people are so used to having a life of luxury that they don't even know when something precious gets lost.
I have done a good job today.
Stuffing my pockets with the last of my findings, I glide out of the market to find my friend Ravan.
Vivian G.
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