"Must I do this now?"
Deryn glances up from counting money into his palm. "If you want breakfast, aye."
Alek doesn't quite stifle a sigh. It turns into a yawn, which he can't stop either. His breath plumes in the frigid December air. "It's so early."
"Breakfast usually is."
"That's not what I meant."
"Aye, you meant you don't want to hurt your poor princely brain with all this commoner work." She pushes one last coin into his palm with rather more force than is necessary, and gives him an irritated glare.
"No," he says, closing his hand around the money. "I most certainly did not mean that. But can't I buy lunch? Or dinner?"
"I want breakfast, Clanker."
Alek sighs again. It's useless to argue with Deryn in regards to food, and a trifle dangerous to keep her hungry.
He looks about the bustling London street. He's a bit hazy on their precise location, perhaps because he was still half-asleep when Deryn dragged him out of bed and into the city. Or perhaps because he has only been in the city for less than a week.
Or perhaps because London is immense and every street is bewilderingly foreign: animal smells and noises that never cease; buildings ornamented with swirls, curves, and carvings of bizarre creatures; and a cacophony of accents that manages to occasionally overwhelm his understanding of English, much to his annoyance.
This place is no different. They're in some sort of market, thronged with people buying for the holiday, and vendors are selling every foodstuff imaginable. "What would you like?" he asks, somewhat helplessly.
She shrugs. "I'm not choosy."
This is true, but doesn't help him make a decision. Alek picks a stall at random and points to it. "How about that?"
She follows his finger and brightens. "Oh, aye, perfect! – I haven't had a pasty in ages. Now go buy one for each of us."
"Ah," he says, swallowing around a sudden burst of nerves. Inwardly, he chides himself: he's a prince – might have been an emperor – he can't possibly be intimidated by the thought of buying himself and his friend some breakfast in a London market.
And yet he remembers how utterly foolish he felt in Lienz, attempting to purchase newspapers. He'd allowed his men to handle the hotel payments in Istanbul under the pretense of deceiving any snooping German agents, but in truth he hadn't wanted to risk repeating his dismal performance.
Even here, he has handed control of his finances (such as they are) to Volger... and to Deryn, who has been minding his pocket money these last few days.
He looks down at the coins in his hands and then at Deryn, half-expecting censure for his dawdling. She doesn't look impatient; in fact, she looks concerned. "It's all right," she says softly, momentarily dropping her Dylan voice. "Here. How many shillings d'you have?"
Alek tries to remember which ones are shillings. It ought to be easy – so far, the only coins he knows are British. But they're all so similar, and relative size is no sure indicator of value. "Seven. And… six pence."
"Aye. So you'll give the man these –" she taps some of the coins – "and he'll give you back some in change. Count it, when he does, so you know he's not cheated you. How many pence to a shilling?"
This one he knows: "Twelve. And there are twenty shillings to a pound."
She smiles. "Not bad, your princeliness."
He smiles back, absurdly pleased with the praise, but feels compelled to add, "That doesn't make any sense, you know. Why not set everything in units of ten, rather than twelve for this and twenty for that?"
Deryn rolls her eyes. "Because everyone in Britain is daft. Quit blethering and go buy breakfast, Dummkopf!"
Alek jingles the coins in his fist, sets his jaw, and goes forth.
There's a small crowd for the stall, and more than one person working it. When Alek reaches the front, he finds himself facing a short, round woman with a florid face and grey hair tucked beneath a kerchief. "What'll you have, lovey?" she says, in such a cheerfully broad accent that it takes him a moment to understand the question.
"Ah – two, please," he says, gesturing, suddenly conscious of his own accent. She doesn't appear to notice. In scarcely a blink, she has two of the pasties wrapped in newspaper and is handing them over.
He glances over his shoulder at Deryn, who's grinning at him, then turns back to the vendor and fumbles to give her his money.
Her end of the transaction is accomplished much more quickly. She drops a smattering of coins into his hand along with an admonition to enjoy his holiday, and moves on to the next customer. Alek steps aside and returns to Deryn, immensely relieved to be done with it.
"Brilliant," she says, plucking one of the newspaper bundles from his hand. She unwraps it to a great waft of savory steam. "Mm, and it smells barking delicious. Did you count your change?"
"No," he says.
"Do it right now, then."
He does, slowly and awkwardly (why are all of these coins so similar?), then looks up at her to confirm his calculation.
"Aye, dead right," she says, satisfied. "And you knew sod all about money two days ago. I'll have you haggling like a proper housewife in no time!"
"Wonderful," Alek says drily, though he feels more than a little proud. The woman hadn't given him a pitying glance, or acted as if he was a fool, or seemed to notice in any way that – at sixteen years old – this is only the second time in his life that he's purchased something on his own.
Deryn has been independently buying things, if her account's to be believed, since she was less than half his age. But he was never intended to handle money, and so it is an accomplishment, however small.
He adds, "I look forward to wearing the apron."
She laughs and starts eating. He watches her for a moment, smiling, thinking of other things that he might buy. Things that he might buy for her.
A sketchbook, perhaps, and some pencils. Yes; she would like that. And surely he has enough money left. He fingers the coins still in his possession and tucks them away.
Deryn nudges him with her elbow and says, mouth full, "Eat your breakfast, ninny, it's getting cold."
"Aye, Mr. Sharp," Alek says, just to hear her laugh again. And then he eats his breakfast.
