One day, he met his match. A girl. She was fifteen. And one hell of a liar.

She didn’t have to wear sunglasses to hide her eyes. Her long, black hair took care of that. Her chin was defiant. Her lies, noteworthy.

He had met her while traveling through the English countryside. “What’s your name?” he had asked her. “Morea. What do you want?” boldly came her reply. “I am a merchant.”
“No, you’re not.”
“How do you know, you just met me.”
“It’s winter. You’re wearing sunglasses. There’s neither sun nor snow for glares, so I’m assuming you’re a filthy liar. What’s your name?”
“Peter. Petey to the Queen.”
“Peter. Where are you going?”
“Uhh, Spain.”
“I’m going with you.” She didn’t ask him. She told him. So, what else could he do, but agree? He didn’t ask her a question without expecting a lie. It would be foolish.

In Madrid, they lied their way to half a million pounds. People believe anything, so long as it’s sad thought Morea. She briefly glanced at him. Peter included.