His tutor’s words sang in his ears like a lullaby: “Distract them, laddie and never look at the pocket. A steady hand, a sweet smile and the skin off your back if you come back empty handed.”

A sailor. Good targets; too befuddled with rum and sun to notice if you took their shirt from their back. His hand slipped into a pocket and slid out a coin, while he babbled apologies for jostling him.

He made it to an alley before he realised the sailor had a friend with sharp eyes...and the threat of a beating lost its sting.



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