Flora
A funny thing about the human mind—we make a big hullabaloo about keeping secrets, especially when the stakes involve important people. But the bigger the people, the larger the spillover.
Take the Crown as an example. Law and order has done everything possible to conceal our monarch's fragile condition from us, but the harder they try, the more we know.
King George III suffered his first round of debilitating mental illness in the 1780s. From what I figure, it is not long before he descends into an irrecoverable state.
But, bless his heart and the heart of all non-romantics, like me, who nonetheless enjoy a good love story; it is also said that our Queen Charlotte loves him well and will never leave his side.
What must it feel like, to have that kind of support? To know that even when you are at your worst and most vulnerable, you're never alone?
I figure that is the same thing I should feel when I slip through the opened partition and almost collide head-first into a pair of gentle blue eyes. I stumble.
A series of profanities escapes my parted lips in a most unwomanly fashion.
"What the hell, James?" I finally mutter as he pulls me up from the ground.
"Did you really think I was gonna let you come here and pull off the biggest heist we've done all year alone?" He bares his teeth in a scruffy grin.
I can't help the low chuckle rising in my belly. James always shows up. Ever since the day he found me in tatters on a bitterly cold evening, with next to nothing to keep me warm and a stolen loaf buried in the pits of my stomach, and gave me a home.
"How did you even get here?"
"You should check your sources, Flo," he replies merrily. "I've been in touch with Zee all along. You know, the sneak thief from Wisteria Crescent?"
"I know," I bark back. "Don't tell me he's got his eyes on Wentworth too?"
"The entire city has their eyes on that man for different reasons. Anyway, Zee told me Callum's a slippery eel, and if he's given you some, he's likely holding back some."
My blood runs cold. "Callum lied to me?"
"Not exactly."
The air grows stale as we venture into the concealed passage.
A narrow corridor yawns before me, its walls lined with cobwebs and faded portraits. The sounds of Wentworth's thunderous voice reverberates through the mansion, echoing omniously.
"He just forgot to mention that there's a way in here through the same route. We can't take that route anymore, because while I was coming through, I heard dogs growling.
"They've stationed them right at the opening. But there's another way—one that goes to the right, and Zee told me we can take that.
"If Callum had said that, you could have included me in your plan and asked me to hide out until you opened the shelf-door thingy, and we could have worked like a team!"
I almost smile again. James sounds ridiculously childish, which is endearing. In my world, there's little to stop you from growing up quicker than you're meant to.
Even then, he's one of the few to have retained that spark we get when we're stupid, grubby toddlers and the world is still hopeful.
"Isn't that what we're doing right now?" I ask instead.
"Aye," he replies, but his tone is defensive. "But you know, it's different to sneak in on a sneak thief and to go in as a team. You wouldn't listen when I asked before, so I just decided to show up."
"You did good." I pat his shoulder. "Where does the right end of the tunnel lead, by the way?"
"Just the edge of Oakley Square, ten minutes from home."
The Ragged Sparrow.
"Good." I sigh. "I can't wait to get home and meet the bloody dealer tomorrow."
James lets out a shocked gasp. "You still had time to steal the necklace?"
"I never leave a job undone."
The walls seem to close in on us.
"The audacity of that thief! Find him, bring him to me!" Wentworth's voice carries a distinct air of menace. The urgency in his command fuels our determination, for I know the consequences of failure could be dire.
We live in a colorful time. For the most part, unless a criminal is caught in the act by their victim, they're likely to evade justice—although I have a price on my head.
In 1799, two hundred offences carried the death penalty. These included the theft of items whose monetary value surpassed five shillings. Yes, I am far ahead of that.
James would reassure me by saying many of these sentences never came to pass. And this is true, because juries and judges did recognize how barbarous the punishments seemed at a time when poverty was so stark.
Juries could determine goods were overpriced and bring their value below the five shilling threshold. In many cases, the government themselves reviewed the sentence.
Between 1798 and 1807, nine thousand death sentences were handed down in England and Wales. The small mercy? Only two thousand have been carried out.
But I know if I were caught, my name would land on the list of top ten people to be executed.
For one, I did not deal in shillings.
Not when my heists involve expensive jewelry and artifacts.
My heists are for bigger purposes, and to help a family of growing nobodies— children and young adults who survive on the edge of darkness.
Let me repeat myself: when you're the best at what you do, you become the primary breadwinner. This meant I could not rest. And I could not get caught.
"Bless my knickers," James mutters as we come upon a locked door.
Panic takes over as the voices draw nearer. I grip the key, feeling the cool metal against my balmy palm. I insert it into the lock, my heart pounding with trepidation.
"Come on, Flo. You got this," James says, his voice carrying the same pitch of a young girl seconds away from being a piece of candy.
The metal mechanism yields to my touch, and the door creaks open with a wail of protest. We dart through the threshold and find ourselves in another corridor mirroring the first.
We half-run, half crawl through the narrow walls, and then, I spot it—a seemingly innocuous portrait, its frame slightly askew. It's on a wall—and there's nowhere else to go. A dead end.
"What the hell?" James breathes. "I didn't expect this."
"Did Zee say anything about a picture?"
"No," he replies, sounding confused. "Damn him."
Instinct takes over, and I push against the painting desperately. To my surprise, the wall holding the portrait creaks and opens, revealing a concealed alcove.
"They've taken the right exit," a voice shouts.
I take James's hand and run. The dim light casts long shadows. The passage is cramped, its walls lined with cold stone.
In the distance are the distinct sounds of Oakley Street. Relief surges through me, tempered with last-minute anxiety.
I hold on to the clamor of weary footsteps and the occasional bark of a street dog. The air is thick with damp and decay. A flickering, feeble lantern on the wall ahead beckons us, and we finally reach the end of the passage.
It opens up to a hidden doorway. We push, hoping against hope it will open. It does, straight into the interiors of a grubby little establishment on the heart of the street.
Patrons sit by windows, sipping drinks. No one casts a second glance at us as we scamper past the room and into the dark of the night.
Makeshift stalls and carts line the street. People walk past us with no care in the world for what I could have in my pockets.
Poverty has no time to waste. I wonder, for a wee second, why a man like Wentworth would possibly link his grand manor to a place smudged with this much destitution.
The Ragged Sparrow comes into view.
"Well, we're home," James says, breathing hard.
"It's not the end of it." I feel the weight of the necklace in my pocket. Reaching into my coat, I pull out a rose with a missing petal and toss it aside.
I've finished what I set out to do, for now. I look around me.
Wentworth's secret passage opens to this street, just minutes shy of my own home.
It won't take him much to find out a ramshackle, repurposed warehouse full of misfits and thieves.
I need to think. And fast.
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