Flora
Of late, there has been a fiendish increase in entrapments meant to stall the work of, well, fiends like me.
A week ago, I'd found myself in Callum's drawing room, looking at his perplexed expression with my own deadly calm.
His facial features would befit someone who had consumed fried frog legs before being told they're not chicken.
"Why don't you stop, Flo?" he'd asked, his tone whispery with fear on my behalf.
Whenever I was confronted with opposition, I had a singular cue—a majestic scowl that James liked to call the Hurricane Scowl.
For context, I do not enjoy when friends or strangers try to make decisions about how I should live my life.
Being a sneak thief gives me no pleasure. But there are times in your life when you master a craft with meticulous precision and do it so well it becomes second nature to you. That is where I am.
I can't just stop. I don't know what else to do. It is no different than apprenticing as a carpenter and being told to work as a blacksmith.
So, I'd been blunt. "I'm not here for advice on how many heists I need to complete to get where I need to be," I replied, a tad tartly. "Will you help me?"
Callum had tapped his pristine fingernails upon the rich mahogany of his table.
Come to think of it, it was odd for me to even be friends with him. But once upon a time, I did him a favor. And when I pass favors, I charge interest.
Nothing in my world comes for free.
Especially not when I was dealing with one of the architects who designed Lord Wentworth's manor and knows its ins and outs better than the man himself.
"Very well," he'd finally said, relenting to the steeliness in my behavior. "What do you need to know?"
Which brought me to today.
In this exact moment, I stand amidst the clattering of objects, aware that time seems to have suspended itself.
I am almost certain I hear footsteps echoing in the background, the pursuers running as fast as they can to get to me.
With seconds to make my next move, I look around frantically, willing my mind to consider all possibilities.
Wentworth is a sly man. This means that he covets secrets.
Toward the north corner of the room, I spot a lone door; its carvings depict a winter forest scene. It should lead me to the devil or his lair. Not like I can choose.
I could go out of the window, but if I try to climb down in haste, I risk falling. And I know guards will have surrounded the premises by now.
Even if I can outsmart them, I can't outsmart Wentworth's hounds.
Do you know what makes an owl beautiful?
Both humans and owls have binocular vision. This means we are all prey defined by our circumstances.
I can wager my life's earnings on one fact—today, if the people about to close in on me are thrown into an impossible situation, they will kill, hunt, and maim to survive.
They will betray their god, if it came to that. In times like these, classes did not matter.
James tells me that higher urges would never be more important than the base human need for existence. It is utterly banal, and today, it will save my life.
Back when Wentworth designed his mansion, he hired the best architects in town.
Rumor says that he wanted to remove their thumbs, so they could never replicate the structure of his home. One of those architects, Callum, is my friend.
More specifically, I cashed in on an overdue favor when I planned this night.
An owl never relies on chance—life has too much of that anyway. You go in as prepared as you can be and hope that your circumstances won't throw you in a right two-and-eight.
I glide across the floorboards, evading obstacles with light, nimble steps. I leave no trace of my presence. At this moment, I am nothing but a fleeting breeze blowing past the room.
My body weaves as I duck under low-hanging tapestries and sidestep delicate furniture. The door opens, mercifully. Across the threshold, I find myself in a library, true to Callum's description.
Even driven with base instinct, as I am, I pause for a second.
Tall, towering bookshelves line the walls, arching toward the ceiling. The shelves are adorned with carvings and filigree, their mahogany frames exuding a rich warmth.
A ceiling with a grand fresco looms overhead, depicting a starry night and mythical beasts against fluffy clouds.
The room is generously endowed with Corinthian columns, their elegant fluted designs rising from a polished marble floor.
They support this coffered ceiling, standing still. I almost think they are whispering about an intruder amidst them.
An intruder who never had a chance to read a fairytale. Row after row of leather-bound books surround me, their spines embellished with gold leaf and embossed titles.
And amidst it all is a grand fireplace in an ornate marble mantle. I see embers from burnt-out logs, and the fire tongs at the side look like they've been used very recently.
"Look for a row with lilac spines," Callum had told me. "And then pick out Volume Three of Royal Rendezvous. It should be on the second row from the top, and the sixth book from the right corner."
I'd been incredulous at the time, even when he told me the precise details.
"Does he never change the positions of books? If I knew how to read well, I'd hole up in the library and end up changing things every day."
"Oh, you silly girl," Callum had scoffed. "Do you think Wentworth ever reads those titles? You forget he has no need for knowledge, nor the time. He is too busy with pretty heiresses and cunning deals to bother about what he considers petty."
I'd opened my mouth to argue, astounded that anyone could consider reading as "petty," but Callum had raised his hand, his eyes understanding.
"Flo, you come from a different class. I'm sorry to put it so bluntly. But for people like you, who've never had the chance to know the worlds that lie in books, it's completely normal to crave knowledge.
"You're not him. You'll never be him."
Maybe he'd meant well. But all I can remember now is the sting of those words. I'll never be him.
Brushing aside the prickling frustration on the base of my neck, I reach the aforementioned shelf and count. Soon, I'm pulling out the book Callum told me about.
And just like he'd also mentioned, the moment I have the volume in my hands, a low creaking ensues, the entire shelf groans, and a click sounds. I've triggered a lock mechanism.
I trace the wood until I find a partition right in the center, and then, with my heart pounding against my chest, I push.
I remember something at the very last second. Callum had told me about a key in the book. I need that bloody key.
Cursing under my breath, I reach out for the title once again. My movements are clumsier this time, in direct proportion to the urgency of my need to escape. I cannot be caught.
If I am caught, nothing will protect my brothers and sisters, particularly Kate. Kate needs me to be okay.
"Halt, whoever you are!" I hear in the background.
I quickly open the first page of the book. It is entirely hollow inside, save a handsome bronze key.
Now. I must leave.
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