Sway shoves her way through the crowded market, ignoring the damp heat and the acrid smell of sweat. She spots a particularly inattentive man haggling over the price of a trinket. Rich, by the looks of it. She sidles up to him, keeping her eyes downcast, waiting for the opportune moment.
Unable to resist the seller's wares, she strokes a polished figurine of a rearing stallion reverently before turning to business. She slips her thumb into her tiny knife-ring. With one neat flick, she parts the leather thong of the man's belt-pouch, grabbing it as falls free. She melts back into the throng with no one the wiser.
Later she pauses to count her winnings. The man must have been richer than she thought; this trick will keep her in business for the rest of the week. She heads for the statue in the center of the Square, slipping an apple off of a stack on her way. Emma waits where Sway left her, sitting on the statue of old Horace Greely and drumming her heels absently. Her face lights up as she sees Sway.
Emma's blonde baby-curls are shining once more and her eyes are alive with the simple joy found only in a child. Only a week since Jitney took her to the doctor and her improvement is amazing. Emma runs off to play with a young girl her own age after Sway gives her approval. Sway leans against the wall contentedly, glad that she'd been able to take the girl with her today. Jitney badly needed a few hours of rest, and Emma likes nothing better than to visit Central Park.
"Oy, Mush!" Boots's voice rings out across the park. "You seen that girl over there?" He asks, nodding in Sway's direction. Sighing, Mush glances over at the girl that's lingering at the edge of the park. Boot's has "found his thief" so many times in the past few days that he almost wishes he could take back his request for help. He rakes his eyes over the girl briefly, ready to dismiss her, but something about her catches at his memory. Her smudged white shirt and torn, green trousers drape over her slender figure, and her soft black curls are pulled back from her face with a tie. "She matches that description pretty decent, wouldn't ya say?" Boots continues. Mush frowns as his memory clicks into place. It's her alright.
"Thanks, Boots, I owe ya one." Slapping his last couple of papers on the ground, he strides towards her determinedly.
Sway pushes a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and takes a bite of her apple. The tart juice tastes like a slice of heaven. She can't remember the last time she had an apple.
"I believe ya have somethin' of mine." She looks up, startled. A tall youth stands before her, maybe 19 years old. His cool voice and unreadable eyes don't fool her; his body language screams his anger. A small curl of fear twists inside of her as she recognizes him, but she comes to her senses quickly. What can he possibly do in Central Park? She smiles winningly, feigning innocence.
"What, this apple? No, sorry, couldn't possibly be yours . . ." She's bluffing, stalling for time.
"I want my money back." His eyes are dangerous in the golden sunlight, swirling with resentment. She smiles, her mouth twisting sardonically.
"Well, you can't always get what you want, Mush," she says sweetly, sarcasm heavy underneath her words. What a child. She turns to go, eager to be away from him. He grabs her arm roughly. He spins her around to face him with easy strength, backing her against the wall when she tries to yank herself free. He's too close, invading her space. Suddenly, disturbingly, she realizes how handsome he is.
"Leave me alone." Her eyes are dark with emotion, startlingly green. He's thrown her off balance, stolen her casual control. She shifts nervously, lowering her eyes. "I spent it." He stares, disgusted.
"You spent it." His grip tightens. "On what, apples?"
"No, actually, I stole that." Her words are absurdly light an carefree in the serious moment.
"Ya admit that you're nothing more than a thief," he says. Her brashness surprises him.
"With pleasure," she retorts with a small curtsy. Now it is she who mocks him and his idealism. "You seem angry."
"I spent three nights on the street because of ya." He glowers.
"Then you shouldn't have interrupted me in the first place. I was doing my job quite decently before you jumped me," she says.
"An' who do ya think would have been blamed the next time one of the Donovan girls opened up the jewelry box and found it lacking? The head maid of the house is a friend of mine." She looks away, her eyes hardening. She hates herself for the shame that creeps through her.
"So that makes you righteous, does it? I had my own reasons." She shoves him back with quick irritation. "Let go of me." He obliges reluctantly, stepping back from her. She refuses to rub at the dark handprints on her arms.
"Ya had reasons, huh?" Mush is skeptical, his voice laden with scorn. For some reason Sway feels a need to justify herself.
"See that little girl over there?" she says, pointing. He can't tell if she's angry or defensive. Both, most likely. "Her name's Emma. She needed a doctor real bad, and her sister didn't have the money for one. Nobody else was going to give it to her." Her laugh is forced and bitter. "In case ya hadn't noticed, the people around here ain't exactly a bunch of bleeding hearts." She walks away from him, casting a burning glance over her shoulder. "I did what I had to do."
Mush gazes after her, squinting against the bright sunlight. He suppresses the impulse to follow her with difficulty. She pauses by a young boy, maybe four years old. He slouches against a statue, his bare feet tucked underneath him. His clothes are dirty and threadbare. Sway tosses her apple to him, and the boy looks as though he's never seen anything more precious.
Sway thrusts her hands in her pockets jerkily, calling out to Emma. The September sunshine casts a golden nimbus around her defiant form, as though she's been blessed and doesn't know it yet. An unexpected admiration seeps through him. He drags his eyes away from her, sighing as he realizes that someone has absconded with his last papers.
The sleepy afternoon drifts on, riddled with the shouts of peddlers and the clatter of carriages.