Euphemia Cardiff, for her part, was all too happy to call the spectacle above her magic. She'd been born to a witch after all, and the word 'magic' was neatly and easily interchangeable with 'god' in her mind - both of them things her life had given her no reason to doubt.
Eppie saw the fellow - and a fine, fancy sort of fellow he looked, too! - gawking, and he may as well have had 'the perfect mark' emblazoned upon his forehead in perfect, glowing calligraphy. Her spider senses were not only tingling but giving off loud alarums. It would have been the height of stupidity not to, after proper precautions, slip a small hand into his pocket and relieve the fine fellow of the neatly bundled wad of credit there, slipping it deep into her bodice for safekeeping.
Crowds (for all their kindness to pickpockets) were unpredictable, however, and a moment after the cred was safely stowed Eppie found her small frame rammed into by a rather large brute, and tossed rather unceremoniously into the 'perfect mark' himself. She had no time to do anything but give out a yelp of surprise before she was in his arms, gasping and blushing.