He heard that sigh. 

It was, so he believed, a good sign. It surely meant a decision had been made and, regardless of what came next, he would be happy that the wait was over. The woman hadn’t taken long to reach her conclusion, but when it made the difference between success and failure, even a single breath seemed an eternity. 

Her voice came again, just as quiet as before, but with far less anger it in. And no shouting, a very good sign, indeed. Beneath the canvas, Curdle’s whole body felt suddenly limp and shaky, the relief was tangibly heavy and weighed down every muscle. He did not mind that her reasoning was more for herself than to help him. This was not an instance where charity would be applauded; there was no reason for her to act otherwise. Trembling, he made sure he knew his right from his left, in case his mind had ceased basic function, and took another light breath before trapping the air in his throat and lungs. 

The simplest of magic. He’d used it twice already today, and was tired enough that a third might well prove too much. Still, the attempt was worth the effort if it succeeded. So, the aging jinni held his breath and worked to empty his mind. It was the mind that shaped the presence of an individual, after all, without a mind, he might as well be part of a crowd, unremarkable and unimportant. Of course, it would only last for as long as he could hold his breath and avoiding clarity of conscience. He did not dawdle in getting out from under the canvas, though he did try to make the act as normal as possible. A most difficult endeavour, to be sure. And his face was turning red with the effort when he finally stood and glanced towards where she’d claimed the guard would be.

The alley, he saw immediately, and the guard a moment later. He seemed as yet unperturbed. Good. 

Despite the risk, and his now rather disheveled mien, Curdle spared a second to face the owner of his safe hiding place and bowed enough to make his gratitude clear. He had no other means with which to thank her, he couldn’t speak, and his lungs were beginning to burn, restraining magic as they were. 

Thanks given, he straightened and walked deliberately away from both her and the guard, pace increasing the farther he walked, until he was once again running as he turned a corner out of sight. He didn’t make it much farther before he had to lean against a wall, gasping for breath and desperately swallowing the coughs trying to escape. Too close, too loud. Someone would hear and look and notice. Not that leaning against a wall looking ready to vomit (and that may not have been an exaggeration as his stomach began to twist itself around a lump of hunger and fear-wrought adrenaline) was in any way less out of the ordinary. He could recover his dignity a little faster though, and started walking again without any of the speed he’d achieved earlier. 

His throat was dry. His joints were stiff. His chest ached. His mood was unpleasantly hopeful. He had no reason to look forward to what would come next. But now that he did not have the urn weighing at his shoulder, his steps seemed strangely light. And Curdle even smiled at the market guard as they shouted and fussed about his sudden appearance. He made no attempt to fight back when they restrained him, and held his silence when they demanded to know what he’d done with the Lady. It was only as they marched him away that his heart sank yet again. 

What if that merchant did not do with the urn as he hoped? Was his final act for Fiira going to be giving away her trust? 

As he stumbled and felt his knees hitting the floor of a holding cell, hands tied behind him, Curdle realised he had made the wrong choice. Fiira had not given up on him, believing him capable of this one thing. He had stopped trying too soon.