It was a full moon that night. Through our small cottage window, the entire interior was bathed in her soft glow. The perfect opportunity for another heist.

Mother and Father had given me an earful on the morality of stealing--even when it would make our miserable lives far less unmanageable--but they failed to specify if that code of ethics only extended beyond our cottage or if it applied within it as well. As far as I was concerned, if an item stolen from our cottage never actually left its premises, was it truly ever stolen at all?

A grey and blurry path to stride upon, I know, but when offered hypotheticals, I learned to just err on the side of benefit until shown reason to do otherwise. It did pain me, of course, to watch Mother search all day for her ladle. It pained me still, as amusing as it was, to watch Father stir the broth by sloshing the pot vigorously back and forth, but I knew their anguish would not be in vain!

I slid the long wooden spoon from out beneath my pillow, Father’s snores acting as my cue that the coast was now clear. I slipped the spoon through the slots of my crib, easily reaching the securing latches, and letting the door fall freely.

I returned the spoon beneath my pillow as an assassin would sheathe their blade after another moonlit job seamlessly executed. Unlike an assassin, I tripped over my own sock, but even professionals make mistakes.

A flawless recovery!

Halfway to my mark, that towering pillar of forbidden knowledge, and I looked to my parents, watching for movement. Their dark figures lay as still as distant hills. Hehe. Too easy. I scuttled the remaining distance.

There was no storm to cover any slamming tomes falling from the heavens this time, but in addition to being handsome, charming, and a devilishly skilled magician in my former life, I was also a master strategist. When my parents last put away the books I had pulled from the bookshelf, I had strategically ensured that the atlas was placed on the bottom shelf, rather than out of my reach--the most successful of those strategies being to cry and point until my parents placed the book lower. And to think brilliance was one of my lesser traits.

Dragging the book across the cottage was the most challenging part of my ploy. As convenient as the bookshelf was to reach, it was not in the most well-lit corner of the cottage. I heaved the book like a boulder across the floor, feeling like a character in some allegory set in a circle of hell. Once close enough to the window, and under the moon’s luster, I thumbed through the pages.

My goal was to find an illustration detailing a small village with a wide market square that resided on the edge of a forest. My village. With its name fixed in my mind, I could piece what Mother had taught me thus far when she read to me and try to fit the verbal sound to the linguistic symbols on the page. If I could manage that--if I could force myself to read--perhaps I could dig up more information on this place, this emperor, and their idiotic laws. It wasn’t much, but it was all I could think to do, at least until I became a bit older.

I was just beginning to familiarize myself with the words, sounding them in my head and focusing on the scribbles on the pages, when a click came from the door.

My heart pounded. The fear that some stranger was attempting to enter our home was outweighed by a much more guttural, far more nostalgic fear: the fear that I would get in trouble for being out of bed.

I crawled like a tortoise on a mission: quickly, but not really. Before the door opened, I had just managed to pull the crib door up, holding it fast with one hand as I feigned sleep. Through one peeking eye, I spied our intruder, dressed in white robes. That’s a strange choice of outfit for a burglary, especially under the cover of night.

The figure moved quickly through the cottage, creeping all the way to the back, toward my parents’ bed. As they came upon it though, they threw off their robe in a wide sweep of their arms, sending the white robe fluttering to the ground. In the moon’s soft illumination, I saw this woman--because she was obviously a woman, now--and the sheen of her red hair clearly. It was my mother. And after she tucked the robes under their secret floorboard beneath the bed, I watched her slip into the bed next to my father. I know I wasn’t supposed to be out of bed, but what in the Maker’s name was she doing? And how did I not notice she was missing earlier? Does Father really take up that much space in their cot?

The next morning came quickly. It seemed discovering more secrets within my family was exhausting work, because I had never found sleep so easily. Mother was already in the kitchen, cooking our morning meal. Father was wondering how the blazes our atlas had made its way across the cottage, when a knock interrupted his musings.

Father answered the door, making sure not to linger too long after the knock was heard. The marshal once again darkened our doorway.

“Marshal Ven,” my father tried not to sound surprised. “How can I assist you this morning?”

“Krig of Fenn,” he started, wearing that smile like it was a part of his uniform. “I’ve come to inform you that I have completed my investigation.”

We all froze. Then what is he doing here?