Dark clouds rolled across the sky, the wind carrying the smell of distant rain. In the small crook of a hunched hovel, Flick shielded himself against the cold. 
He stared across the cobblestones at a house of warm brick and overgrown plants, a verdant rebellion against the sullen gray of Dunbridge. He had watched the witch's house for three days, and for three days it had been still. It would have to be tonight. 
He traced his path once more: over the iron fence, across the grass, up the wall. At the top, a solitary window was his way inside. He would have to—  
"Biscuit for ya, dear?" 
A soft voice lifted him from his thoughts. An old woman stood on the street, pulling a battered cart just behind her. She was holding the morsel out towards him. He hadn't heard her approach. 
Flick raised his hands, pursing his lips in an apologetic smile. "No coin, sorry ma'am." 
She only held it closer, and the aroma seemed to drag him from his nook. 
"Then this one is on the house, dear." She said, her smile widening. His hand had already darted out for it, and she winked as he bit into it. 
The world crumbled away just as the biscuit did in his mouth, thoughts of robbery giving way to thoughts of which jams he wished to spread over this delectable treat. He felt as if his feet would suddenly leave the ground, and he could soar away from this dreadful city. There had never been anything like it at Cutter's mess. 
Flick released his breath and opened his eyes. The woman was gone, her cart along with her. 
# 
Later, while the city slept, Flick scaled the wall, a black spot against the vibrant brick. The vines that devoured it writhed and twisted against his touch, retreating in defeat as he reached the window, which jerked open with a choked puff of air. 
He slipped through, feet landing softly inside. Silence. And a surprising warmth, thick with the smell of orange and spice. He descended into the house, quick yet quiet, desperate eyes scanning over every wall, every doorway. 
Dust motes hummed and swayed in the air, seeming to move with the slow, sleeping breaths of the walls and floorboards. In every space and hollow, he found nothing but sunken furniture and old books, spotted pots and cracked cups. 
A painting on the first floor caught his eye, illuminated by the faint light from the streetlamps outside. A young woman, arm held firm around a little girl, her daughter. He smiled, but the expression soured to a grimace. He straightened the frame instinctively before realizing his folly. 
It was then that he saw it, a faint glimmer from the room beyond. There, on the mantle above the black maw of the fireplace. 
He crossed the room in three great strides, dancing around one of the large velvet armchairs that faced the long-dead fire. 
It was a box, clad in gold and adorned with gems of all colors and cuts. It was small, but already he could sense the grand fortune it would grant him. 
Flick leaned close, breath caught in his chest and settled his hands on the cold metal. Slowly, he lifted the lid. 
Before he could see inside, the lid snapped shut and the fireplace roared to life, spitting fire from its mouth and threatening to set his legs alight. He yelped, falling backwards and clattering against a table set between the two chairs. 
The sudden light had blinded him, and he tried to steady himself as his vision cleared. 
There was a hand, just out the corner of his eye. His heart slammed against his ribs as he scrambled backwards along the floor. 
There, in the armchair, an unknowable look in her eyes, was the old woman, the one from the street. His mind reeled in shock and confusion, trying and failing to cobble together a plan to escape, to be far from this place. His body was frozen under her gaze, and his mind was slowly grinding to a halt along with it. 
"Please, have a seat." She said, pointing towards the chair he lay against. Her voice was still soft, calm. She nodded towards it again, and so he slid himself up, sinking into the plush comfort of the chair. 
"It's enchanting, isn't it?" She continued. "The box. It was a gift from an old friend." She smiled, memory playing behind her eyes before she looked back towards Flick. 
He was still tense, his entire body coiled and ready to spring out the front door. He clenched his hands, beads of sweat forming on his brow. 
"You can relax, young man," she said. "I'm not going to turn you into a newt if that's what you're thinking." She gave him a wry smile, still holding him with her cool gaze. 
He did not return the smile, and he could not find his words. The fire crackled, and he could feel himself burning, inside and out. 
The old woman rose, drifting around her chair towards the back of the room. Flick watched her every step. She went to the painting, smiling as she brushed the frame. 
"Your daughter," she finally said. "What is her name?" 
Flick flinched, breathing in sharp, eyes locked to his lap. He swallowed the panic building up inside him. He could still feel the woman's stare from across the room, peeling away his defense. 
"Lilly..." he whispered. "It's Lilly." The tension in his hands had started to move up his arms, shaking as he dug his nails into his palms. Part of him still believed this woman could smite him if she wanted to. 
"Is she why you've broken into my home tonight?" The woman asked, returning to her chair beside him. "It is not greed that I see in your eyes." 
Flick's chest compressed upon itself. "She's sick." He said. "They said... they said she wouldn't make it without..." He shook his head, grinding his teeth against the tears starting to well in his eyes, his cheeks flushed. He choked on his words. "I had no choice." 
"And the debt you carry now... it is heavy, yes?" 
Another stretch of silence, broken by crackling flame and shuddered breath. 
"Yes." Flick's voice was no more than a whisper, his hoarse breath barely carrying the single syllable over the roaring flames. 
There was a shuffle of movement, though he dared not look up, and then she was standing before him, holding the box towards him, offering the treasure with the same simple ease as the biscuit that morning. 
Flick looked from the box to the woman, his mouth opening in a question, though no words came out. He couldn't muster anything but a choked sound, a ragged and wet intake of breath. He swallowed, meeting her eyes and looking for some trick, but he could find none. 
Instead, she simply nodded, and he reached for the box, taking it from her and settling it in his lap as she returned to her chair. 
He stared down at his calloused, dirty hands as they traced the jewels adorning the box. A hot tear fell from his cheek, streaking down the metal. 
Then another, and then he could hold it back no longer. His chest heaved as he began to sob, squeezing the box until his hands hurt. 
She said nothing as he cried. When he raised his head again, she was looking at him with the same serene stare as before. A calmness came over him, and the shuddering of his chest stilled. 
They said nothing to one another as the tears dried on Flick's face, as he relaxed into the warm embrace of heat and velvet. 
She stood as he had begun to drift to sleep, jolting up with a start. 
"If you would forgive an old woman's need to rest," she said, "I'll show you to the door." 
She gently guided him to the front door. As she reached for the knob, she suddenly stopped, raising a finger and quickly scuttling from the foyer. 
She returned a moment later. She placed a hand upon the jeweled box. "This will pay your debt," she said, soft and firm, "But this..." She placed a biscuit atop the box, its fresh warmth steaming the cool edges of the trim. "This is for Lilly." 
She smiled and opened the door, and he stepped out into the cold of the night. The biscuit in his pocket was still warm.