South of the Palace District, they emerge into the expanse of the Prime Market: six hundred acres of shops, stalls, and sumptuous pickpocketing territory. As evening falls on the city, torchlight springs to life across the breadth of the market. Anything you want can be found here, along with anything you need and many things you’re better off without. Whatever you desire, someone here wants to sell it to you, and someone else wants to steal it first.

Heaven, for short.

“Ah.” Parnassus steps away, holding up a finger. “Say no more. I will be back.”

Safran fights the urge to run, to hide, as they wait for Parnassus’s return. When he reemerges from the tavern a minute later, he holds a plate of four steaming, sugar-crusted pastries filled with pungent cheese and fruit.

“My own creation,” he says proudly. “Passion fruit, honey, ricotta cheese, and distilled brandy.” When Safran raises an eyebrow, he adds, “The alcohol is cooked out, so Curt can have them.”

Safran and Curt each take a pastry. When Safran takes a bite, her taste buds explode with layers of flavor, starting with a crescendoing sweetness that settles into mild, pleasant bitterness, all buoyed by the lightness of the cheese. If she’s honest – something she’s been avoiding all evening – they’re even better than the guava-cardamom pastries she stole from the Prince’s Palace last fall.

“You made these?” she asks through a mouthful of dough.

Parnassus nods. “You inspired me, little one. This is my latest recipe. I think I may leave all this—” he gestures to the raucous tavern crowds “—and open a bakery someday.”

Even Parnasuss is changing. As Curt inhales his first pastry and reaches eagerly for a second, Safran wonders this place could look like in another year. With the absence of the White Caps, and the addition of streetlights, and bouncers beginning to bake, there may be hope for Marrow Street to become…better. Hope that kids like Safran and Curt can be cared for, not cast out.