James had only let Charles out of the house the following morning on the condition that he drink not one, not two, but three of his horrendous concoctions. Charles had lined them up like shot glasses, throwing them back under the watchful eye of his brother and doing his best not to throw them right back up.

"Please try to hire someone respectable," James said as he inspected each bottle to ensure Charles had drunk every last drop. "They'll have to live with us for the next week and I'd rather not have someone slopping muddy shoes through the foyer and spitting out chicken bones on the carpet."

"I'm sure Thaddeus hires a more proper bunch than that," Charles said, adjusting his hat in the front hall mirror. He was trying to hide the bandages wrapped around his head, but it was no use. I guess I'll just be hideous for a day, he thought.

James rolled his eyes. "Just be careful."

"Always am," Charles said with a wink and then stepped out into the morning sun.

While the city had been calm and quiet last night, now that it was daylight, the whole town was alive. Women walked by with parasols, shading their skin from the sun. Carriages rolled by, carting people to and fro with the clopping of horses. And a few vendors were already out, manning their stalls on the street corners, selling a mix of the magical and the mundane: fruits and amulets, roasted peanuts and spell books, hand-carved wooden knickknacks alongside potions galore.

Charles wove his way through the town, tipping his hat at the people who recognized him which—as usual—was always a few more than he anticipated.

"Mister Abbot!" he heard someone cry, and when he turned to the sound, Charles saw an older gentleman with a thick grey mustache hobbling towards him.

"Mister Davis," Charles greeted, doing his best to put on a smile.

Mister Davis paused, catching his breath from his sprint and resting on his ebony walking stick. "Good thing... I caught up to you... Mister Abbot," he said. "I was wondering..."

Charles knew what he was going to ask before the words even came out of his mouth.

"...if you've found... a flying memory for me."

Mister Davis had been asking for the same memory for over three months. And despite looking, Charles had not yet found a mage who could fly.

"I'm sorry, Mister Davis. I still haven't found one."

"Those cheeky buggers. Hiding on me, they are," the old man mumbled. "Someone somewhere knows how to fly."

"You know I'm always keeping my eyes open."

"I know you are, Charles. You're a good man." Mr. Davis looked down, as if expecting to see Charles' briefcase full of memories in his hand, but was surprised to see it empty. "Where's your briefcase?"

"I'm actually not selling today," Charles said.

Mister Davis' drooping eyes widened. "Really? Why not?"

Charles had to stifle a groan. As nice as Mister Davis was, he had an annoying habit of being a bit too intrusive. Still, Charles lifted his hat a little, revealing the bandages. "Got a little bruised up last night. Going to see the doctor," he lied.

"Your brother couldn't patch you up?" he asked with a chuckle.

Charles smiled and slowly started walking away. "I really should be going," he said. "I'm going to miss my appointment."

"Who's your doctor? The wife's been hounding me to talk to someone about my knee..."

Charles pretended not to hear him. And, thanks to Mister Davis' bum knee, Charles was able to escape unscathed. It was how he ended most conversations with the old man, and luckily for his business, Mister Davis didn't hold a grudge.

Charles kept his head down for the rest of his walk, trying his best not to be recognized. Eventually, he reached his destination: the arena at the other end of the city. It was a great oval wooden structure, with crisscrossed beams and worn wooden benches surrounding a large dirt clearing. Every week, battle mages would wow the crowds with their skills, wielding bursts of fire, re-directing blades mid-flight, or transforming into great beasts.

Now, it was quiet. There were no performances scheduled for today. And yet, that didn't mean no one was home.

Charles wandered under the structure, weaving through the labyrinth beneath the stands. Here, the walls were littered with promotional fliers, advertising the latest performers: a man who could breathe underwater, a woman whose fingers could transform into knifes, an old man who moved so quickly that you'd think he could teleport.

The further Charles went, the older the posters became, advertising men and women who no longer performed. Charles was only mildly surprised to stumble upon one poster with a very familiar face on it: Thomas Monroe, Cecilia's father.

The portrait on the poster must have been drawn at least ten years earlier. Charles couldn't help but notice the differences between the image in front of him and the man he often drank port with after a meal. Now, his belly was rounder, the wrinkles in his face were deeper, and instead of the stern look portrayed in on the poster, he was typically laughing.

Cecilia's father had been a great earth mage, finding fame and acclaim in this very arena—so much so that he had built an empire, amassing more money and influence than anyone could have imagined from the young man who had first rolled into town thirty years ago. He had finally retired three years ago, and even without his constant presence in the arena, he was just as influential. Anyone who was anyone—leader of a company, government official, restauranteur—wanted his advice, and seemed to relish his company. It was something Charles had found rather funny the few times he had attended a small dinner at the Monroe estate: watching someone desperately try to gain Mister Monroe's approval, all while Cecilia's father laughed and joked, as if oblivious to the status he held.

Charles still couldn't believe that this was the man who was to be his father-in-law in just a few months—that soon, by the transitive property, Charles himself would also gain power and influence by becoming a Monroe. It was something that his homeless, 14-year-old self could have hardly imagined.

That is, if I survive until the wedding, he thought to himself as he continued forward.

Eventually, the corridor ended at a tall door. Charles rapped his knuckles on the wood and it was opened a moment later by a man with long grey hair and a large mole on the side of his face.

"Yes?" the man drawled, poking his head through the crack.

"Mister Barnes," Charles greeted with a smile.

"Mister Abbot," the man responded. The two had never formally met, but both had heard of the other. They were both well known in town: Charles for his memories, and Mister Barnes for the talent he employed—as well as the deals he made outside of the theatrical realm. "Please, call me Thaddeus. How may I help you, good sir?"

"Thaddeus, I'm looking to hire one of your mages."

"Of course. Come inside."

He pulled the door wider, revealing a large office space. There was a desk cluttered with papers, a chalkboard hanging on the wall that was dotted with names and dates, and a door off to the right which led to the onsite mage housing. Although locals would sometimes perform, most of the mages Thaddeus hired were from out of town. They were often employed on a contract basis, sometimes staying for several months at a time.

Thaddeus offered him a chair, which Charles took. Then the old man sat down at his desk, laced his gnarled fingers together, and tilted his head. "So, Mister Abbot. Tell me a little bit about your situation and I'll see if I can help."

"I was robbed recently," Charles said, settling on an easy lie. "And I'd like to get my stuff back." He lifted his hat, exposing the bandages, and continued, "The thief knocked me out quite easily, and I'm not sure if she practices any battle magick or—"

"She?" Thaddeus inquired, eyes raised in surprise.

Charles paused, biting his tongue to prevent himself from saying anything that might get him in trouble. "Yes. She."

"Forgive me, I didn't mean any offense by it," Thaddeus said, shaking his head. "I know how wily women can be. It's just something I like to take note of..." He gestured, flicking his fingers. "Go on."

Charles let out a slow breath. "Again, I don't know if she's a battle mage or if she had access to strength potions or if she just got lucky, but I'd like to be prepared before I encounter her again. As you likely know, my magicks aren't quite equipped for this sort of thing, and there's only so much I can do with potions."

"And when you encounter this thief again, what do you plan on doing?" Thaddeus asked. While Charles had been talking, he had been jotting words down on a sheet of parchment, his scrawl too messy for Charles to make out.

"I'd like to capture her and force her to return my items."

Thaddeus nodded. "Anything else I should know about this thief? Or your plans with my mage?"

Protect me from a murderous cult. Charles shook his head. "I think that covers everything," he lied.

Thaddeus looked down at the notes he had scribbled and ran a gnarled finger down over the glistening ink. "You have an interesting case here, Mister Abbot," he said. "And to be honest, I'm not quite sure if I have someone available for the task."

Charles blinked. "Really?"

Thaddeus nodded. "The fact that your assailant was a woman? That automatically disqualifies about 75% of my hires. I employ a gentile bunch, Mister Abbot. Many would not take kindly to roughing up a young lady, thief or not. Then there's the issue of capturing her. I'd need to lend you a mage with some ounce of cunning, and also with a skillset to allow you to capture this thief without causing too much harm. A fire mage simply wouldn't do." He tapped his finger. "And then there's the issue of the unknown. You don't know anything about this woman. She could be a formidable battle mage with magicks never seen before. I'm a businessman, but even I don't like taking risks that large."

Charles ground his teeth together. "So you're saying you don't have anyone?"

"Well..." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned towards the board on the wall, his eyes scanning over the name of the mages in his employ. "I can think of two who might be up to the task, although one of them is actually unavailable right now—already hired out. So I guess... Well, I guess I do have someone I can rent out to you for the next month."

"Month?" Charles repeated. "Oh no, I'd only need them for a few days, a week maximum."

"Unfortunately, I only rent out on a monthly basis," Thaddeus said with an apologetic smile that was neither an apology nor a smile. "I have shows to re-choreograph, line-ups to keep track of. It simply wouldn't work for a shorter rental. But don't worry, I'll give you a good deal. In fact, the mage I have in mind comes with a discount."

"Uh huh..." Charles said, somewhat uncomfortable. "And why is that? Is there something wrong with them?"

"No, no, not at all. They're just a bit..." He flipped his wrist, as if conjuring the word from thin air. "Unorthodox."

"What's their magick?"

"They have two abilities actually: a rarity, as you know. Telekinesis and a touch of lightning work. It's a fun mix. Have you seen a show recently? People love it."

"Unfortunately I haven't had time for a spectacle as of late," Charles said. "What's your price?"

Thaddeus scribbled something onto a piece of paper and passed it over. "Discount and all," he announced.

Charles scowled at the paper. The amount did not appear discounted in the slightest. "Come on, Thaddeus. Knock off a few hundred and then we can talk."

"I'm sorry, Mister Abbot, but that is my offer. I think it's fair, given how talented this mage is."

And because he knows I don't have much of a choice. Thaddeus was the only reputable battle mage manager in town. If he said there was only one mage who could handle the job, then he had to take his word for it. Charles could go elsewhere and try to hire someone on the black market, but as far as he knew, these cloaked cultists were the black market.

"Fine," Charles said. "But I'd like to meet them first, before signing any sort of contract."

"Of course," Thaddeus said, standing up from his chair. "Let me go get them," he said, and then disappeared behind the door.

Charles waited impatiently for him to return, wondering what sort of mage Thaddeus had in mind for him. It took a few minutes, which Charles used to impatiently check his pocket watch and pace around the office, but when Thaddeus finally returned, Charles stilled, ready to greet his new hire. But what he saw gave him pause. The person who had followed Thaddeus from behind the door was hardly a person at all, but a little girl.

Charles looked at Thaddeus, unsure if he was playing some sort of joke on him, but the mage manager had on a knowing grin. The girl, meanwhile, stood there silently, carrying a battered leather suitcase. She wore britches, like a boy, and had blonde hair woven into two tight plaits. She couldn't have been older than ten.

Charles clenched his teeth together as his stomach flipped. He couldn't help but feel a bit of anger, a touch of sadness, and—more than anything—annoyance that he was being played for a fool. "Thaddeus..."

"Yes, Mister Abbot?"

"She's a child. She's young enough to be my daughter!"

"I promise you, what she lacks in age she makes up in skill."

"Thaddeus, I—" Suddenly Charles' words were cut off as a pressure closed in around his throat. He tried to draw in air, but horrifyingly found that he couldn't.

His eyes flickered to the girl. Although she stood on the other end of the room, her eyes were narrowed and her hand was outstretched as she squeezed his windpipe from afar. There was a scary strength to her grip, and he could tell that if she flicked her hand upwards, he'd be hoisted into the air—or worse: his head would slide out of alignment, severing his spinal cord and killing him instantly.

But thankfully, instead of demonstrating that skill, the girl's arm fell to her side and the pressure on his throat died away.

As Charles coughed and caught his breath, the girl gave him a sweet smile. "I'm a prodigy."

"I... can see that," Charles rasped.

"So," Thaddeus said, clasping his hands together, "do we have a deal?"

Charles rubbed his neck, unsure what to do. From her quick demonstration, he was convinced the girl would be more than capable catching a thief. But hiring a child felt wrong. He had started working at fourteen, so he knew firsthand how it had forced him to grow up much more quickly than he would have liked. "You have no one else available?"

"None who I could hire out for at least another two weeks. But come on, Mister Abbot. Were you not impressed? Juliette here will no doubt be up to task of nabbing your little thief."

Charles let out a long sigh, knowing his was stuck. "Fine," he said finally. "Where is your contract?"

"Sign here," Thaddeus said, passing over a piece of paper. "Also, please note the clause at the bottom. It's standard, but if anything happens to her, there will be a fine—for both the show and to pay back her family, of course."

"My family's dead," Juliette piped up suddenly, a mischievous smile on her face. "So don't worry, sir. If I die, I'm sure Mister Barnes will give you another discount."

Thaddeus sent her a sharp look. Juliette giggled.

"I'll make note of that," Charles said as he finished signing and passed over his payment.

Thaddeus took the coins, counted them twice, and then slipped them away in drawer. "Juliette, be good to Mister Abbot. I will see you in a month."

"Yes, Mister Barnes," she said. Then, staring up at Charles with her big brown eyes, she announced, "Let's go."

Rendered speechless, Charles tipped his hat and left the stadium with his new battle mage in tow.

They walked side-by-side in silence for a long while until Juliette finally spoke up.

"Don't feel bad, sir. I'm paid very fairly for my work."

"That's good to hear, I guess," Charles said with a mumble. "But still, I would have liked to hire someone a bit older. Perhaps someone of age, at least."

"Don't you think you're being a bit hypocritical?" she asked. "After all, you worked as a child."

Charles paused and looked at her. "How did you know that?"

"The library, sir," she said, swinging her suitcase as she walked. "I like to read the papers. Your portrait is all over them. And in the old ones, you were hardly fifteen. You were somewhat of a prodigy yourself, it seems."

More out of necessity than out of any innate skill, Charles thought to himself. Being good at his craft meant that he and his brother could leave the violence of their father and make a living out on their own. It was something he had to do, but not something he would wish on anyone.

"Don't worry about me," Juliette continued. "I like what I do, and I'm good at it. Plus, Mister Barnes said you just need me to a catch a thief. That I can do." She grinned.

Despite her levity, Charles still couldn't shake the heavy feeling in his gut. "Don't you wish you just had time to be a kid?"

She flung his thought away with a flick of her wrist. "If Mister Barnes hadn't found me, I'd still be at Silvers Orphanage on Downing Street. I didn't have much of a childhood to start with, if I'm being frank."

Her words only caused Charles' frown to deepen.

Juliette seemed to have realized she hadn't done a great job at cheering Charles up, because after a few moments of silence, she said, "You look upset, Mister Abbot. Why don't we go get an ice cream? My treat."

This stopped Charles in his tracks. "Your treat?"

She patted her pockets. "I got a lot of tips at the show last week—I have a new lightning trick that's pretty cool. Plus, I'm craving some rum raisin. Can we go, please? There's a place over on Bleeker that's amazing and I haven't been there in ages."

Charles didn't know what to say at first. But eventually, he found himself nodding. This might not have been the battle mage he had been expecting, and he still didn't like that he had hired a child, but this was an opportunity—for both of them. Perhaps Juliette could help him out, and then he could do the same for her. "All right, Juliette. You win. Let's get some ice cream."