Aza sat in the corner, whittling a piece of driftwood. She said nothing.
One by one, she returned each item—but not to its owner. The coin bag went to the widow whose roof had caved in. The staff she left at the miller’s door, who needed a loan to rebuild the bridge. The locket went to the farmer’s daughter for her wedding. The carved chest she gave to the schoolmaster, who sold it to buy books. aza lukava
“Then we starve,” said the farmer.
The bridge was finished before winter.
“You robbed the rich to feed the poor?” he asked. Aza sat in the corner, whittling a piece of driftwood
Within a week, five valuable things went missing from five locked rooms. And each time, Aza Lukava happened to find them. Always by chance. Always with a shrug. The coin bag went to the widow whose roof had caved in