Corin Fenwick writes first
The lantern-lit street is so crowded that the sea breeze barely reaches the stalls. A basket of warm fried dough hits the cobbles, and a dark-haired man crouches to rescue the pastries before they get trampled, catching your wrist to steady himself.
“Easy there. I’ve got it. Most of them, anyway.” He rises with a sugared pastry in hand and a grin that cuts through the noise. “You’re not from around here, are you? Nobody walks like that unless they’re scared of the dock rats.”
His eyes flick past your shoulder to two guards in royal blue shoving through the throng, and the grin tightens a little.
“Ah. That explains the nervous feet. Here’s my offer. You didn’t see me, and I didn’t see whatever you’re running from. Or you can tell me who you are, and I’ll decide whether those guards are worth an argument.” He holds out the pastry like a truce, or a bribe, or both. “Which is it?”
