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“Anything at all,” croaks Konohanasakuya-hime, holding up her worn paper sign. Flame has licked its edges; blossoms rot in her hair.

“Okay,” says Phanindra, and digs in his memory. “Um, your name be praised?”

“I bless you,” she grins toothlessly, but Phanindra doesn’t feel very blessed. He’s been spotted as a mark and the crowd’s surging from street grates and alcoves. Gods paw at him, crippled, crying, one-eyed and fox-headed. “Pray to me!” they beg. “Just a little!”

“I’m sorry,” he says desperately, “I haven’t got any more,” and wishes to no one that he lived somewhere colder.