𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹 | 𝑘.𝑏.

26

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C R U M M Y
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FETA FROWNED, BROW CREASING GENTLY. "But this is what I'm good at."

"Better if you stay here," Kaz dismissed. "Off you go, Zenik."

Nina would have preferred Feta come with her, actually. It would be less suspicious for two girls to tut around Upper Djerholm than for Nina to wander aimlessly by herself, especially with the way things were in Fjerda. They were stricter with women here; they had rules and responsibilities that must be seen to lest they disappoint their fathers and bring shame to their family and blah blah blah.

Besides, Feta was born here and had more practice with deceiving its citizens. She'd swindled her way through this country once, and if she could do it as a child then she could certainly do it now.

From mesmerizing pigeons with her dances on the Staves to bringing the Komedie Brute plays to life in theaters to crooning in her corner of the Crow Club or just outright from behind the bar, the title — the stage name — Siren had followed her everywhere.

Feta's reputation preceded her. She was more than capable of being exactly what everyone needed.

Nina would dare to say Feta was more fluid than her; Feta would disagree. Nina was a natural actress. She was clever and quick on her feet and she had been a great help in Feta improving her improv, a natural teacher, as well.

But Feta, in Nina's opinion, had more dedication to character, nailed the mannerisms and speech patterns every time.

Hell, she'd even had Nina convinced she wasn't Grisha.

Not that Nina had ever asked, now that she thought about it.

That was a conversation for later, for after this job, for when they all went their separate ways with their fortunes. No matter that the longer Nina thought about it, the longer she actually was hurt that Feta kept being a Tidermaker secret. Of all people not to entrust with this secret... Had Nina been the last to know?

Later.

For now Feta was staying here, in this crowded bakery with Kaz and the others since Kaz wasn't budging.

"Precautions, Feta. Think of the peddler today," Kaz said, unmoved by Feta's calling, by her willingness to help. "Too many close calls—"

"But they're not," Feta reminded him. "If they think they know me, then that's perfect! They'll be easier to approach, and loads more willing to tell me about Hringkalla. I mean, c'mon. Look at this face." Feta rested her chin on her interlaced fingers. "Could you tell modest, reserved, lil ol' seen-and-not-heard me, no?"

Kaz stared at her over his cinnamon roll. "You look local—"

"Gee, you finally noticed?" They'd been parading around this sea of blonde long enough already that Feta's eyes were starting to hurt.

Unperturbed, Kaz said, "Wouldn't you find it strange if someone who could very easily be your neighbor begins asking basic questions about one of the most popular celebrations in the country? Wouldn't you want to ask her where she's been?"

Although Feta would've liked to point out that she was more than capable of being discreet, of figuring it out, she settled instead for amusing herself, seeing that she wasn't going to be let out of this bakery quietly. "Tell them I've been rolling in the dirt. It wouldn't be too far off."

Kaz cracked a wry smirk and settled back in his chair, eyes never leaving Feta as he said, "Off you go, Zenik."

Feta kept herself busy by stuffing her face with their second attempt at something edible, leaving demolished rolls and chocolate-chunk cookies in her wake. It was all she could do not to sulk.