<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ccff99">Ayla’s pace slowed considerably, her nose tiling up just a little, before she turned and slipped down a still crowded side street, finding herself in front of the window of a pastry shop. She let out a soft sigh, resigned to her fate. She had to go to the Tailor’s first, not wanting to get sticky cinnamon, or icing all over her hands before her fitting. With a pout, she reluctantly continued on, slowly picking up pace again the further she got from the bakery.</span>