Your choice changes what happens next
A client in the palm
Isha was repainting a theatrical mountain when a small golden crown settled on her open palm. Its points rearranged themselves into an expression of distaste. "I require a thief." "Then you require the shop next door. They sell disappointing pastries." At thirty-eight, Isha had brown skin, short dark hair and an undeserved criminal reputation. Her teal waistcoat, worn over a white shirt, bore the paint stains of an honest prop-maker who could make cardboard look expensive and expensive things look faintly embarrassed.
The reputation came from a poster calling her THE WOMAN WHO STOLE THE MOON. She had built the moon for a play, invoiced for it and kept the rejected prototype. Nobody had stolen anything. Nevertheless, respectable customers now counted their spoons. The crown listened, then brightened. "Even better. I want something impossible made convincing." It wanted its Majesty stolen: not its gold, but the royal title that dragged it back onto Duke Ordel whenever midnight struck.
Today was Vellumere's Feast of Gracious Possession, when ceremonial objects could invite guests and visit them until midnight. The crown offered its own ruby, won at charades, as an advance fee. Isha pocketed the detached stone. "No refunds for foolish employers." "Finally," said the crown, "a law I understand."