I had forgotten just how many people packed into Hawthorn during festival week. It had been a couple of years since the last time we came, but even then it never felt like this. It looked as if the entire kingdom had arrived. Dad said that during festival week there were around thirty thousand in Hawthorn, which was more people than I had ever seen in one place in my entire life.

  The outer roads were packed with wagons and travelers, and we had to park our cart near the edge of the city walls. From there we made several trips carrying crates and bundles to the small market stall we had reserved.

  By the time we reached the inn, dusk was already settling over Hawthorn. Our Inn had only had one room left, which only had one bed so all three of us had to share. None of us slept well, but at least we were inside and warm.

  Morning came quickly. We grabbed a simple breakfast from the inn of gruel and headed straight to our stall.

  Our stall was simple, but once everything was set out, it looked pretty good. We were selling some of our corn as animal feed, whole ears of corn, and my favorite part, popcorn we made here.

  Mom had made a huge custom metal kettle from leftover scraps she had saved from her work, and we brought our rune heated stone to pop the corn. We had two kinds: kettlecorn and cheesy corn. The cheesy corn used cheese from our goat back home, and as soon as we made the first batch, the smell drifted across the street like a warm invitation.

  Dad handed me the small leather coin bag and told me I would be the one handling popcorn sales this year. Inside were ten iron coins and nine copper coins, worth nearly a full silver. I knew how much trust that meant. I tied the bag around my waist, trying not to grin too obviously.

  A few stalls down, John’s family was setting up their own booth. They had brought breads, potato loaves, and baskets of potatoes. They planned to make potato pancakes in the morning. Festival food always tasted better fried in oil, and their pancakes were a favorite every year.

  The morning hours passed quickly. We sold a good amount of corn, and the kettlecorn had steady customers. Mom handled the large sales, but I was the one greeting people and taking coins at the front. Iron coins and copper coins were starting to fill my bag. For the first time in a while, I truly felt like I was helping.

  By late afternoon, the sun dipped low enough that the lanterns hanging above the market began to glow. Music drifted from the inner streets. People in bright scarves and nicer clothes wandered past, talking loudly and laughing. Hawthorn felt alive in a way Bramble never could.

  Our next batch of kettlecorn finished popping, and the warm, sweet smell made me smile. I stood proudly behind the small table with bags arranged neatly. Dad had left a little earlier to sell the monster parts to a shop in town, so for the moment it was just Mom and I.

  I glanced down again at my coin pouch and felt accomplished. This was my first time handling the money, and I was doing great so far. I looked up and I saw two boys around my age walking toward the stall.

  “What do you have for sale?” the first boy asked.

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  “Kettlecorn or cheesy corn. Five iron coins each,” I said, trying to sound professional.

  “Can you show us which is which?” the second boy asked.

  I walked around to the front of the stall and pointed at the bags.

  “Thank you,” the first boy said, and as he stepped closer, he suddenly tripped. Instinct took over and I grabbed his arm to keep him from falling.

  “Sorry,” he said quickly, brushing dust from his pants.

  “It is fine,” I said. “Do you want kettlecorn or cheesy corn?”

  “Kettlecorn,” he answered. “Two bags.”

  I handed them two bags. He placed a single copper coin on the table and both boys jogged off without another word.

  I picked up the copper coin and reached down to tuck it into my coin pouch.

  My hand touched nothing but my shirt. I

  For a second I thought it must be on the other side of my waist. I felt my waist again and again. Nothing. I checked the ground. Nothing.

  My heart dropped.

  The pouch was gone.

  Every single coin had vanished except for the copper in my hand.

  “Mom,” I whispered, “Mom, something happened.”

  She turned immediately. “What is wrong, dear? Are you hurt?”

  “The money,” I said. “Mom, the money is gone. I had it tied tight, I swear. I do not know what happened.”

  Dad arrived just then, brushing dust off his sleeve as he walked up to us. He smiled at first, then frowned when he saw our faces.

  “What’s wrong, did something happen?” he asked.

  I told him everything. Every detail, from the boys walking up to the slip and the stumble. When I finished, he took a slow breath and rested a big hand on my shoulder.

  “You were pickpocketed, son.”

  My breath caught. “But they paid me for the bags of kettlecorn. They seemed polite. You really think it was them?”

  “Almost certainly,” Dad said gently. “One of the boys bumped you to distract you. The other took the pouch. Then they used some of what they stole to pay for the kettlecorn.”

  Tears stung my eyes. I felt my face grow hot, and I looked away. This was the first time Mom and Dad had trusted me with something important, and I had failed. I wanted to run and hide.

  Dad squeezed my shoulder firmly.

  “Listen, Jude. You are not the first to be stolen from, and you will not be the last. You did fine. Truly. Next time, I will hold the coin bag and you can hand me the coins when you need change. I still want you working the front of the stall if you think you can handle it. You had been doing a great job.”

  I sniffed and nodded, wiping the tears from my eyes.

  “I never thought people would steal from a boy like me,” I said quietly. “If they had asked, we probably could have just given them a bag.”

  Dad sighed. “People steal for all sorts of reasons. Some want easy money. Some want a thrill. Some do not want to work hard like everyone else. You must stay vigilant, but not bitter. Not everyone is looking for ways to steal from you or hurt you. I have learned in my years to think the best of people, but prepare for the worst. That balance has served me well.”

  “Think the best, prepare for the worst,” I repeated. “I like that.”

  The rest of the evening passed smoothly. We sold plenty more kettlecorn and cheesy corn. Crowds grew louder as the night went on. Musicians played in the main square. Fire mages sent arcs of flame into the sky. Mana lanterns shimmered in every color.

  Even so, the pickpocketing stayed with me. It felt like the world had suddenly become bigger and sharper around the edges. Not worse, just more complicated.

  When we finally returned to the inn late that night, the sounds of the festival still echoed from the streets, but sleep came to us easily.