"Who wants to bet my brother can't reach that window ledge? Any takers?"

Diarmi posed confidently, glancing upwards at the second-story window ledge his little sister had pointed to. Maybe three inches wide, a foot and a half long, set into the brick exterior of some deli he knew nothing about (though its broad windows certainly invited inspection).

Yeah. He could make that.

He stretched, feeling the familiar popping of bones shifting around their joints, as his little sister collected bets. Some were genuine, he knew, though others were 'betting' just for the pleasure of seeing him either fall flat on his face, or out of spite towards those people. Most people were betting against him, and Zola absolutely did not carry enough cash to pay out if he failed.

He couldn't fail. He wouldn't fail.

And when she said 'Dimi?', off he went. Personally, he thought leaping at the deli window without actually smacking into it was far more impressive than getting up to a second-story window, but that's not what the people were betting on, was it? Out of the corner of his eye, he could see someone, probably an employee, startle at his presence, but he refused to allow it to distract him. It took only a slight bend of the knee to launch himself up, grab the upper ledge, and twist his body to land above it. This next part would be tricky, but it was simple to him: just move quick enough and gravity would lag behind. His fingers, callused from hours of stunts like these, gripped onto the rough bricks and he skittered along the surface, grabbing the ledge from beneath, and pushing off the wall to flip up onto the ledge, where he turned and waved down to the crowd, in varying states of flabberghast (was that a word?), amusement, and awe. His parents, who'd been watching with only mild interest, gave a polite applause in contrast to the whoops and cheers from the crowd. Zola went among them to pay out the handful of winners. And in the back of the crowd, he could see his two oldest siblings moving about.

His stomach dropped, but his grin didn't. He stood, catching the top of the window, and bowed, encouraging their excitement and their attention on him. Better him than Zola, he'd decided all those months ago. Let her stay innocent in all this. He leaped off from the ledge, taking the second to pose in the air before landing in a tumble and springing back to his feet. The crowd went nuts - well, most. Some were beginning to leave, down the street or into the deli where he suspected they'd tell that poor employee about the stunt that weird kid had just pulled. While it wasn't like the family couldn't hold people captive, them leaving was never good. It meant less money, and, to his own disgust, fewer targets.

Not that such feelings showed on his face. Instead, he bowed and gestured to his parents - his mother had already drawn out the old in-desperate-need-of-a-polish fiddle to play, and his father was promising "magic like you've never seen before!"

Which, Diarmi supposed, was a fair claim to make. How often did money vanish from people's wallets anyways?