'Tis sunrise when Thrasja finishes sweeping the violin spiders from their nightly webs at the tavern.
Ranilo pays her, presses a kerchief of tavern fare upon her: "For Audila."
Departing, Thrasja walks towards the wharf. Streets monkey through The Bottle; she takes a left when an alley forks.
Lately, she feels the sky too open, the air overbroad, the moon a baleful eye. Desperate times mean thieving; Thrasja fingers the knife in her kirtle. But: There's no one, she thinks.
Still, she pauses watchful at her door. Nothing stirs. Sighing, she goes within to await her brother's return.
Prompt: bottle, wharf, violin, moon, monkey, fork