“Istra,” she returned with a smile. “I dance just there,” she nodded toward the tent which boasted of the burlesque. Coffee did make a point: there certainly was very little traffic where they now stood. Come night, it would be packed. “Suppose that you’re right,” she nodded.
“Oh, very nice.” Coffee nodded, not fazed by Istra’s work. She was used to all kinds of people around Coney and, considering that the costumes she wore back when she still performed with her family, she stopped judging anyone long ago. “Eh, I’ll go somewhere else soon, throw some knives, gather a crowd, off load the rest of them.” She shrugged. It was what she did as a last resort.
“You still throw?” she asked, genuinely interested. “I’d love to learn something like that. You probably learned before you could walk, though.” Istra could certainly brandish a knife and threaten a life, but she was a far cry from skilled. She was amateur, at best.
“Yeah, I still do.” Coffee grinned, tempted to show off the knives she always carried but deciding against it. “I do a bit on street corners for extra money. And to draw a crowd.” She chuckled slightly. “Almost since I could walk. As soon as they didn’t think I would accidentally cut my arm off. It’s not too hard, it’s more about not being afraid of hurting yourself.” She shrugged. “I try to teach my friends, they haven’t quite gotten the hang of it.”