If they're patient, they can indeed snaffle a couple of half-full bottles of Greyfields 1879. Not the finest vintage, even for mushroom wine, but beggars really can't be choosers.

Ah, multitasking. It is so blessedly efficient to be begging, borrowing, and stealing, all at once. And how lucky that they aren't full!

To someone watching closely from a vantage within Oakley's pockets, something odd would seem to be happening to either bottle. As a glad-handing Oakley strikes up conversations with bargoers, the wine bottles, cold though they are, begin to bubble minutely, as if the mushroom wines were boiling. As Oakley gives insightful romantic advice to a barmaid, one bottle frosts and freezes slushily, nearly overfilled, while the other, much reduced and darkened, is cold, but subtle about it.

After about a half-hour, one pocket holds a bottle full of pure, clean water (or ice, rather) and the other holds a bitter (but quite compellingly strong) mushroom brandy. As the stranger said to the barmaid, sometimes a couple is more compelling when kept apart.

Are there flyers handy? Or perhaps newsprint.

There are many handy flyers, advertising various poetry readings, brothels, and whatever a "honey-den" is.

Oakley finds a nice minimalist flyer, and pockets it next to the one for Euterpe's Virtuosa Performance. Intrigue loves company, and a tourist ought to have a broader itinerary if examined. A handy cork corks the brandy bottle.

Oakley will attend a poetry reading, and attempt to woo a quill from its current partner. Ink, as well.

An Effervescent Poet is willing to part with a quill and inkpot, in exchange for a kiss on the cheek.

Ah, but which cheek? Who can decide this sort of thing. Two kisses, and no fewer!

With the mendacious aura of shrewd negotiation around their shoulders, Oakley ducks into an alley and whips out the minimalist poster, placing its printed side against the bricks of the wall. With the inkpot balanced on one knee, they write on the back of the flyer:

And they finish with a passable, if scratchy, likeness of Voda the stuffed white hare. This brand label, in its glory, is attached with wax from a nearby candle to the bottle of mushroom brandy.

Now we just need a buyer. Oakley sips from the still mostly-frozen, other bottle, while hunting.

A woman wearing a hat festooned with bright green mushrooms is sitting at a table outside a café and beholding them with faint amusement.

Hello there. What a lovely hat. May I sit. And so on.

Oakley sits with the bottle of OAKLEY JUICE pinned under their hands, upon which they rest their chin. An attempt at meaningful eye contact is made, but frustrated by the hat and its interaction with Oakley's height, even sitting. In sum, they look as if they have something to sell the mushrooms rather than the woman.

She flashes them a grin. "You may certainly sit." When they have, she continues, "I haven't seen, ah, Oakley Juice in the wild before, and I must confess some curiosity."

Oakley looks around. Hardly wild around here. Untamed, surely, but no trees, no lichen, no bears. What passes for wind is just air, harassed by the tall buildings.

But one digresses. "One could argue that no one has ever tasted it before." Oakley has certainly never done this with mushroom wine. Or written a label on it in English.

Her eyes sharpen. "Really? Would you in fact argue it?"

Caught-out amusement from behind rumpled white cloth.

"Well, I'm a foreigner three hours off of my boat of arrival. The first thing I do is... none of your business, I think, but the second thing I do is... well, second thing I do is wallow in the pity of a widow. But the third thing is I take ingredients unique to London, and methods unique to myself only, and create the juice."

Oakley smiles, but then winces.

"Only point of contention is that bottle was tasted before I sourced it. Question becomes, if I drink a river have I tasted the ocean? Fourth thing I do in London is offer you the ocean."

She grins, showing teeth. "I understand entirely. Hmm..."

She stares at the bottle, dark passion in her eyes. She slowly lifts her purse, snaps it open, and withdraws a brilliant faceted diamond the size of her thumbnail.

"This would sell for twelve Echoes and fifty pence. I was going to use it in my latest sculpture, a Bazaarine trifle, but if you promise me that you won't sell your concoction to anyone else, I'll give it to you."

Idle dreams of brandy riches vanish. She's just too compelling to refuse. Also, money in the hand is the only kind Oakley really cares about.

Even trade, thank you. The diamond goes in a pocket even Voda doesn't know about.

The brandy is. Well, it's.

First of all, it's high-proof. If it wasn't the as cold as snow melt, it might just evaporate the second the cork comes out, it's so high-proof. It's also definitely made from bad mushroom wine.

But the taste of it is so intense! So vivid! Not pleasant, not by any stretch, but also not lazy, not afraid. And, on reflection, as the sluicing, burning rain of it numbs the strange muscles of the stomach rather than of the throat... it's clean. In a city of fogs and grimes and smokes, it's a rare taste of something unadulterated.

And the label is, well, somewhat charming.

Oakley asks about art.

The lady sips the brandy. In the first second after her sip, she looks smug. Then she looks troubled. Then she hiccups silently, and stares appraisingly at the person across the table.

Finally, she chuckles and takes another sip. "Art, you say? This is art. Of the Celestial school, I'd say, or possibly the Nocturnal. It's not often you see the two mix together, but you've inspired me to try with my next piece."

Mixing, unmixing, these are essentially the same thing.

Oakley looks for all the Neath like they have no clue what the woman is talking about. This doesn't appear to concern them.

"I'm glad you enjoy it. I hope all of my endeavors in this city are as fulfilling."

Oakley communicates through a series of subtle gestures and expressions that they have no clue where one goes to sell a diamond.

She takes their meaning. "If you wanted to sell something - such as a diamond, such as the one I just slipped you - you should go to the Bazaar. It's right in the center of the city, they'll take just about anything off your hands. Except your soul. For that you'll have to go to Ladybones Road."

"I don't usually expect things to be quite so conveniently located, in cities. I am interpreting this as a pleasant surprise."

The stranger asks profusive questions about the artist's art for about thirty minutes, and then departs. What should they call her, by the by?

She's called the Bohemian Sculptress. "There are other Bohemians," she says smugly, "and other women who sculpt. But I am the Bohemian Sculptress."

Oakley needs a London title just so they can appropriate that line.

Onwards! The stranger moves for all the world like they're traversing a treacherous jungle or rugged swamp rather than cobblestones.

No one harasses them on their way to the Bazaar, somewhat miraculously.

These are the benefits of preparedness, after all! And, perhaps, of looking like each swing of your elbows might dislocate someone's jaw. Ounce of prevention, and so forth.

Oakley undertakes the complex and loathsome procedure of trading a beautiful gemstone for fiat currency. Convenience be damned, although this does mean they can buy food now.

"Oh, glorious!" says the pawnbroker, examining the diamond. "I'd swear there's a bit of sunlight caught in there. Here you are, my fine gentleperson," he says, handing over twelve slips of inked mushroom paper and a handful of copper coins. "Is there anything else I can do?"

The gentleperson avails themself of some education regarding what, precisely, the practical value of an Echo might amount to. How much tea, and of what quality, could one obtain with this amount? they ask, and hold up a random number of bills. And so they continue, until they have arrived at proficiency. For his trouble, Oakley is willing to give the man first crack at being handed back the pieces of mushroom paper he just handed over himself!

OAKLEY'S SHOPPING LIST

A little knife, of the sort used for whittling.
A pair of shoes rated for London streets.
Matches!
Any loose keys.

(After, assuming Oakley's command of local value is holding up, they will spend the rest on things less likely to be found at a pawner's: A meal, a set of big-and-tall Londoner clothing, and, perhaps, Oakley intones to the world, some fucking wood.)