"Perfect," I say, and the word doesn't feel too big.
He grins like I handed him a sunrise.
The train barrels into the dark, and the map above the doors blinks the stations back toward uptown—little green lights, one by one. My phone vibrates a final time, then goes still, as if even it understands: that safe little bubble my parents built? Already cracking.
The carriage sways. Our knees bump. His thumb strokes once over my knuckles, lazy, like a promise with no deadline.
"Tomorrow," he says, "I'll take you somewhere only locals know."
"Tomorrow," I echo, feeling the cliff edge and loving the height.
The lights flicker again. Somewhere down the car, a kid laughs too loud. The doors slide open into the bright light of the next station, and the night waits to see what we'll do next.
Chapter Ten
Draco
The next morning, Charity arrives at the cottage in ballet flats. I dip my chin toward her toes and shake my head. "Cute. But if we need to run?"
She looks down, then back up with that stubborn lift of her chin. "Give me ten minutes." She runs into her cottage bedroom, and I hear drawers sliding open and shut, accompanied by the sound of low muttering.
Ten minutes becomes seven. She returns in black sneakers that actually grip the ground, hair braided, a messenger bag slung cross-body the way I taught her, and Lucky trotting a small circle of approval before flopping onto his towel like an old general who’s seen some things.
I sling my little canvas shoulder bag across my body—habit, instinct, the trade settling into place. She doesn’t ask, and I don’t offer. Not yet.
"Lesson plan?" she asks, too bright, too eager, like she’s pretending last night didn’t crack her world open.
"Navigation, food, and crowd math," I say. "And you’re going to watch me work."
Her smile flashes; then she tries to smother it, like joy is forbidden on these premises. "Okay."
No glossy map tonight—just the one I’ve built in muscle memory. Corners where steam leaks from grates. Bodegas that’ll let you use the bathroom if you buy a seltzer. A deli off Houston that cuts pastrami the width of a prayer. I point, she watches, and the little crease between her brows smooths when things click.
Subway again. She stands where I stand, a half-step inside my shadow, eyes forward, bag in front. A guy in a faded Knicks hoodie hawks bootleg phone chargers and calls everyone "family." Charity fights a smile and loses. When the train rocks, she sets her feet like I showed her—hips loose, knees springy. Quick learner.
We ride to Broadway–Lafayette. The station exhales us onto the street—pretzels, sugar-roasted nuts, wilted flowers from a bodega bucket, and the sour ghost of yesterday’s trash. Her head swivels, soaking it all in.
"Rule from last night still holds," I tell her. "Match my pace."
"I am," she says, and she is—quick, alert, not staring at shiny things long enough to miss the curb. Better than most.
First stop: a pocket-size gallery that is absolutely not a gallery. Chain-link fence, brick wall, an explosion of color and wheat-paste that changes every week. Someone’s pasted a six-foot hummingbird ripping free of barbed wire. Someone else has stenciled tiny gold crowns along the bottom, like a blessing.
She drifts forward, hand hovering over the wall like she’s afraid to touch it and ruin the magic. "It moves," she whispers, watching headlights ripple over the mural until the hummingbird looks like it’s about to lift off
"It moves because you do," I tell her. "Street art’s a conversation. Blink and it’s gone."
She tilts her head. The gold crowns catch the light like they were hammered from sunlight. "Who puts this here?"
"People who can’t wait for permission."
That lands. She doesn’t say anything, but a pulse flares at her throat. The heiress who has secrets in that locked building—secrets that make her eyes light up when she thinks no one's watching. The girl in the cage who left it open on purpose last night.
We loop the block. She learns to curb-read: bikes whisper on your left; delivery guys own the lane; cars make eye contact with no one. At a crosswalk, a man in a suit steps too close and does the quick up-down that prices her like an object. I shift one step to block his view. He finds something else to look at. Charity exhales slowly.
"Thanks," she says.
"Rule three," I remind her. "We watch out for each other."
