“I’d like one pixie-sized pumpkin spice latte, please.” I flash a smile, though my voice still flutters like broken wings. “Oh, and extra whipped cream.”
The barista accepts my coins and scribbles my order—the same one my sister and I used to share, before she left for college.
Has Willow really only been gone for two months?
The other thieves whisper that I’m cursed. Dangerous, like all unknowns. They say I’m cold as ice. Heartless. They call me Sixth—a nickname I’d earned in my initiation into their gang—not the name my mother gave her son.
To them, I’m nothing more than the mask I’ve presented.
They might be right.
I studied the young gnome slouching in the chair before me and forced myself to keep a straight face. Today, Tilli had come dressed as a mushroom. A large dome-shaped hat hid all but a few pink wisps of her hair.
This should be interesting. I adjusted my glasses. “How can I help you today, Tilli?”
Wisely they leave graves open for the dead
‘cos some too early are brought to bed.
I flung the last shovel of dirt over my shoulder and climbed out of the hole. Tossing the shovel to the ground, I wiped my hands on a handkerchief from my back pocket.
“How many more this week?” I asked.
The biggest problem with being a scarecrow brought to life was the publicity. Memories of my prior existence in the zucchini patch remained fuzzy, but I was fairly certain there were no interviews, cameras, mobile phones, or TV crews before the kid worked his magic.
“Come on, Edgar. It’s one night.”
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