Exhibit 3: "Fancy Footwork"

Maybe this was insensitive, but we had a rager right before we left.

Keelo, Promise, Cora, and I, god-proclaimed pilgrims we now were, took a week to prepare for our leaving. Gathering supplies, poring over the map Constance had given us—and having a funeral or two, who's counting—and, on the last day, throwing all that shit on the ground for a minute to dance and jump around.

Turns out that Promise fella was cracked at the piano, because he played us little ragtime jigs and shanties and whatever other folk fodder there was for bumpkins like us, and made it look easy. Spending much of your childhood and teen years leaping between rooftops doesn't always translate directly to dance finesse, but combined with sword training, it certainly didn't hurt me. I was cuttin' a rug like freshly-sharpened shears out there, shoutin' along to whatever song he and Timmy and Keelo played. Their voices are much prettier than mine, but it's about the feeling of it, y'know?

That's what I tried to convey with this piece. I like splatter paint—kinda feels like whatever's supposed to come out will just come out. This is the freest one I've got for ya today. Just some colors splashed in a vaguely… what is that, rhomboid? A vaguely rhomboid shape. Bidding starts at a thousand gold.

This is a dramatic thing to say, I know, but if you're still listening after all that, you'll know it's true. Truth is, that was my last free moment; the last wisps of freedom. The week's load of trauma had already told me we didn't have a damn choice at all in this world, not for anything that mattered, but after that dance, after we took our first steps on the road of Harvest's quest, it really sunk in.

The night of Constance's death, I sat up in my room—right up those steps by the back row—and cried.

But that's for later! Right now, we're partying hard, and Carmen is doing her best to not throw up.

I've mentioned Carmen a few times, but I really haven't done her justice just yet. I'm not gonna point her out in the crowd or anything, she gets embarrassed—corner table, by the bar—so I'll have to give a proper introductory statement.

Carmen is a goddamn sunbeam. She's an artist, a dreamer, and an eternal giver, and with all that, knows how to cut loose and have a good time. She's the light of my life, and the most exciting thing I've ever known.

…Yeah, I like that.

Folk always made fun of us for being so close, boy and girl and all that. I dunno, does it matter? Keelo's a swarm of bees in a shirt and pants, Promise… had his own shit goin' on, and I'm—alright, gettin' ahead of myself. The point is I love my friends in a way I think a lot of people don't get, which is fine. I don't need anyone's boxes or labels. One piece of freedom I have left is not givin' a shit.

We were spinning and twirling on that scratchy wood floor, tossing back shots of who-knew-what on Cora's unending coin, and I made myself forget about those three for a bit. I forgot Timera, and Constance, and Ian and Viola's grief, and my own—my eyes were locked on my best friend, and hers on mine. There were no nosy townsfolk to ruin my perfectly intoxicated mood. Carmen looked happy, but she still had that sad tint to her cheeks she tended to have those days. I figured even with all the revelry, the place was too morose, too many people looking at us, knowing what I'd just gone through, pitying and sizing me up. She always worried too much.

I don't even know if that's how it was, but I felt eyes on me then, even if they weren't. The two of us dipped outta there, skipping through the streets, narrowly outrunning the pressure chasing us. When we stopped to double over and stop choking from laughing so hard, we were in front of Simplecreek Orphanage.

The barrels and dents in the wall out back lined up perfectly for climbing. I'd done it a million times, but Carmen was less steady, so we collapsed up on the roof when she managed to pull herself up—I wasn't much help.

I had plenty of secret quiet places, and that was one of my favorites. When the Roseless' or Viola's were busy, I went up there to sit and think, clear my head. It was something I still tried to do now and then, or I'd get cranky. Just five minutes of Strongly Worded Thoughts a day, and I was back in the action.

The thoughts that day were scattered and trippin' over themselves, but probably strongly worded nonetheless—and mostly tumblin' out my mouth. Carmen joined in. Again, the feeling is what you really remember, not the words.

We'd been doin' that as long as I cared to remember—back then, I didn't like to think further back than three years, so three years was everything. This shit's really been an exercise in dredging it up.

Carmen and I would babble and cackle to each other all night long with some stolen liquor. We'd talk and theorize about why I could do the things I do—invisibility was one thing, but the other thing was another thing—vent about the loser kids around town who'd chase us out of every party—we always went back anyway, invisibility really came in clutch plenty of times—about how one day we'd get outta this hick town and head west, or east, or some other equally enticing direction—we didn't. I blame myself for that. I always got antsy when she tried to start planning to actually do it, and backed myself out. She never fought about it.

It took her a lotta tries before she didn't need the ladder to get up with me anymore. She always preferred to go inside, but lounging and sleeping somewhere you weren't supposed to be just made me feel downright peaceful. That's the best I can describe it.

She wanted to please everyone, I wanted to piss everyone off. Just the way we're carved.

Of course, that list of people she wanted to please included me, I was just too reckless to actually pay attention to that. This time, though, I was really trying my best. I knew she'd been tryin' to get over whatever it was she felt for me for a minute, and I was gonna do my damndest to help out.

All that week I went around town saying goodbyes. It wasn't a see you later sort of goodbye, I'll tell ya that, but it wasn't as direct as it should've been either. I knew I wasn't coming back from this—alright, I'm doin' this in the wrong order.

Listen, I knew why the other kids kept their distance. Timera's fire came out when she got excited, or angry. My "fire" came out when I got scared—that feeling reflected out from me onto others nearby. A magical wave of pure fear. Ian says my eyes turn purple when it happens. That's the only reason he was able to get Constance on board with teaching me magic: if anything ever went wrong, if it went off on accident, I could escape quickly.

I heard them discussing why or how at nights when I was supposed to be gone or asleep—eavesdropping is a bad, extremely practical habit. I didn't bring any of those ideas to my nights on roads and roofs with Carmen. Just my own, and hers. One night I'd been slipped a magical seed that grew in my belly and gave me powers. Another night I was a natural prodigy who'd honed one spell so intensely I could use it to fight off anything, even if it made no sense match-up-wise. Most nights, I was just cursed, but we never said that out loud.

That night was the first.

Carmen sighed, looking over the edge of the roof. "We should kill ourselves," she said contentedly.

I sniffed. "Funny you say that."

She blinked, trying to force the alcohol out of her head. "What? Why?"

"Not actually." I waved my hand, trying to dismiss it. "Just dangerous, where we're goin'. Can't help but feel cursed sometimes."

Carmen looked at me like I just sprouted a dragon head from my shoulder. "You're acting weird." She poked my arm. "Everyone's noticing," she said with exaggerated menace.

"I'm not on fucking shrooms, asshole."

She grinned—the chicken wire a year back really straightened those teeth out. I danced around her jabbing barrage, puttin' some of that fancy footwork to good use. It became a dance of its own: she went for my ribs, I ducked out of the way. I'd feint left, then aim another fake jab at her neck, then duck out of my own attack and shift sideways. I was quicker and she knew it; I always knew how to get her frustrated like that.

My foot slipped, and I was weightless for a moment. The last free moment, where nothing could touch me.

What would've touched me was the gravel road twenty feet below, face-first. Carmen had the back of my collar in her clenched fist. It was lucky I've never weighed much.

We sat after that. Neither of us trusted ourselves to get down that night, so we nodded off together on my old home's oddly crenelated roof. The sun on my face in the morning put a stone in my gut—maybe that magic seed I ate as a kid. I knew today was the day. I'd never be seeing this place again.

Carmen was already sitting up. She had that faraway look on again; her cheeks were rosy with the morning light. We watched the sun rise as it lit up Declan's wheat fields. He ain't the only farmer around here, not by a long shot, but he's got the biggest lands. In a year, not a single grain of it would yield, and it was my responsibility to make sure that didn't happen.

Isn't that a sick joke? When had I ever done anything responsible? To make Constance fucking Whitner say that to me? Who the hell did she think she was? The goddess of life and creation? No. To me, because of this, she'll always just be Harvest.

But still, there was something in me that needed to confront that. If she made me, and whatever dark thing was inside me, I needed to know why. If she killed me after that, all the better. Maybe I'd kill her first, Elder God or not.

All I'm sayin' is Viola made good swords.

I didn't say any of that to Carmen. That came long after. Back then, all I said was, "I'm not coming back. Forget about me."

She just shook her head, and said, "Dude… shut up."

GALLERY OF FORTUNE SIMPLECREEK—RECEIPT—9/18/1316

EXHIBIT #3: "FANCY FOOTWORK" SOLD TO SHAWN ROSELESS (30 GP)