Aza sat in the corner, whittling a piece of driftwood. She said nothing.
She never stopped moving. Because a truly cunning person knows: the moment you stay put, someone finally catches up.
When the mayor tried to arrest Aza for mischief, Jakov stood in front of her. “She broke no lock that was not already weak,” he said. “She stole nothing that was not returned. And she built what you could not.”
One autumn, the river flooded, sweeping away the bridge that connected the village to the mill. The elders called a meeting.
That night, the wealthiest merchant in the valley, old Krešo, lost his prize stallion. The animal simply vanished from a locked stable. Krešo tore his beard and offered a sack of silver to whoever returned it.
“No,” she said. “I borrowed from the blind and returned to the deaf. The rich never noticed their things were gone—only that they had to pay to get them back. The poor never knew who helped them. And the bridge?” She pointed. The miller, with his “found” gold-tipped staff, had already hired carpenters.
“Aza was here. And also not.”