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Disclaimer: Blah blah, don't own any Anastasia characters, blah blah blah get on with it. (Do own Mrs. Proletsky.) (Dimitri's 12 here.)
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The dust and bustle of the morning filled the streets, spread to the alleys, and raised to choke the sky with its clouds of fog and commotion. Horses clomped down roads, shop owners peddled their wares from shoddy stands of crates and cinder blocks, and carts rattled through the square, jostling the occasional piece of produce to the ground.
Understandably, no one could complain in these circumstances if, say, a hand reached out from the dust and confiscated a cart-abandoned apple, kind of like it did just now.
At least, that was what Vlad had taught him.
Dimitri gave the fruit a quick polish with his sleeve and disappeared into the crowd. Breakfast, he thought to himself.
Just as he was about to take a bite, a raspy voice stopped him just short of the glossy red surface.
"Hey! You there! Boy!" The mustachioed peseant in the front seat of the apple cart jumped from his rickety perch and pointed an accusatory finger at Dimitri.
Dimitri recalled what he'd been taught all his life to do in these kinds of situations, and in that second thinking became doing. He turned and ran.
Pushing through the masses of townsfolk as fast as his feet would take him, he slid like water past carts, over fences and through alleys. He finally slowed when the shouting stopped and he was sure he'd outrun the jilted proprietor.
Of course, as luck would have it, he'd come to a halt in an all-too-familiar doorway. Mrs. Proletsky stood around the side of the small house, stooped over a wicker basket of laundry. She looked up from out of her headscarf when she noticed Dimitri's approach, and a knowing smile softened her time-hardened face.
"You can't stay out of trouble for one minute, can you, Dimitri?"
He mustered up a quick fake laugh for bravado's sake. "Trouble? Who's in trouble?"
No sooner had the words left him than he felt a rough hand clamp down on his wrist. He squirmed to flee, but his captor held fast.
"I'm in trouble."
"Who do you think you are, boy, to steal from my cart?" the vendor demanded, his head eclipsing the sun from Dimitri's point of view.
"Finally---there you are!" Both the vendor and Dimitri turned to see who had joined in the conversation, though Dimitri already knew the voice. "I have been scouring the town for you, my boy---you can be sure there'll be a...a conversation when we get home."
Vlad turned his admonishing gaze on Dimitri into an apologetic one on the vendor. He was a welcome sight, and Dimitri played along with every word.
"Comerade, I am very sorry---please forgive whatever infraction my son here has put upon you. You see, he is only twelve, after all, and on top of that, is a bit...." Here Vlad indicated the proper sign language for 'crazy'. "I assure you he meant no harm."
The vendor considered a moment, then, with a sneer, dropped Dimitri's arm. "Keep your urchin paws off my business, boy," he growled as he stomped out of the alley.
Rubbing the color back into his wrist, he shouted, "It's Dimitri!" at the retreating vendor's back.
Vlad picked him up from the ground. "Were you trying to cause a scene? I told you to find breakfast, not get arrested."
"Come on, I had it under control. And the apple wasn't even on the cart," Dimitri argued.
"You and I have a very different opinion of control, my boy. Now say goodbye to the lady."
Dimitri rolled his eyes. "Goodbye, Mrs. Proletsky."
Vlad popped him one on the back of the head.
"Ow! Madame Comerade Proletsky."
The old woman nodded, and Dimitri fell in step behind Vlad.