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It all went down way too fast; one moment Penelope was rushing out of the house after yet another fight with her mother, already running late and the next she was profusely apologizing, kneeling beside a boy who fell with his bike when her horrendously yellow scarf had fallen victim to centrifugal force as she was rounding the corner, subsequently obstructing his view and causing his accident.
But instead of cursing her out for her carelessness, the boy just started to laugh.
“That wasn’t very well done of me, was it?”
“I’m so sorry. This was entirely my fault. I was in a rush to get to the bus stop and- oh my god, you’re bleeding!” she exclaimed when she spotted the blood on his hand from where he had unsuccessfully tried to catch his fall.
He rushed to assure her he was alright and that it was barely a scrape, but she was already rummaging through the contents of the little pink pouch she pulled from her bag.
“A nail file, chapstick, Ibuprofen, band-aids, chewing gum, pads and— A sewing kit? What is that?”
“My emergency kit,” she explained as she put a band-aid on his hand. “Allows me to spontaneously flee the country whenever one of my assassinations goes wrong.”
He grinned. “So, was I the target or just a casualty?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, ...”
“Colin. Colin Bridgerton.”
“Penelope Featherington.”