Flora

The trade-off between quick cash and the true value of stolen artifacts is an unfortunate reality for thieves like me.

If fortune favors me, I can hope to receive anywhere from a quarter to a half of the two necklaces' true value.

I'll admit it—I felt a little bad stealing from the Duke of Danbury's mother last night. But our landlord has been stirring the pot and causing us misery for too long, particularly since we owe him two months rent. I have to make this work.

The clandestine nature of transactions and underworld connections of fences primarily dictate the prices paid for stolen items.

For them, the aim is to strike a balance and offer a sum that will make me sell quickly, while leaving them with a substantial profit margin.

Today, I am limited in my options. News on the street is that the Night Owl has pulled off two expensive heists. I am proud of that news. But it limits my invisibility.

The second I show the precious necklaces to a fence, he will know that I am, in some way, connected to the Owl. I cannot risk too much exposure.

I let out a weary sigh as I pull my hair up into a tight pony.

James puts an arm around my shoulders. "Don't worry, Flo," he says. "Let me take care of the dealings. He knows the Night Owl is a boy, so if something goes wrong, it'll be on me."

Compassion and an odd prick of irritation numbs my skin. I wish James wouldn't look at me like an adoring puppy all the time.

I wish he wouldn't keep making his life second. He needs to know I need him alive, happy, and whole.

"I'm not doing that," I reply acridly. "I'll talk to that scum. He'll be less inclined to believe a woman, of all creatures, could ever be a daring sneak thief. It'll be cleaner."

James nods. "What do you think we'll get for the items?"

"I wish we could get what we would in the legitimate market," I reply bitterly. "But I wouldn't get my hopes up. Plus, Montgomery's in deep with Blackwell. He knows we're a bunch of scallywags and little thieves from The Ragged Sparrow."

"I wish we could go to another fence."

"Me too. But with a price on the Owl's head, our options are pretty limited. At least Montgomery won't bother to go too deep into our history."

The cruelly comic nature of London's underbelly is that even the most successful of thefts rarely brings the desired financial windfall.

The ironies are stark: the thrill of our heists juxtaposed with the harsh truth of exploitation, where stolen treasures are commoditized and their true worth reduced to peanuts.

"I tell you," James says, kicking at a small stone. "Montgomery will take one look at us, know we're desperate to offload our stolen goods, and send us off with next to nothing."

"Let's take it one breath at a time, James," I reply, a hint of impatience creeping into my voice. "If that's what it is, let's at least try to get enough to make rent."

We finally reach a nondescript building nestled in Willow Brook, a narrow lane about forty minutes from Oakley Street.

The sign above the entrance bears the name: "Montgomery & Sons: Fine Antiques and Curiosities."

I adjust my cloak and push the creaking door open.

James coughs at the dust that stirs. We take a minute to adjust our eyes to the dim lights of the stuffy room, its shelves overflowing with peculiar artifiacts.

The musty scent of aged wood fills the air. I approach the counter, where a portly man with an oily mustache gives me a crooked, greedy smile.

I know he is not Mongtomery—the real man is likely hiding somewhere inside.

"Hello, madam," this man says, his voice dripping with false courtesy. "What brings you to Montgomery and Sons?"

Well. I want to tell him we're here because we're running out of options. The last fence I went to almost had me arrested.

The one before that asked me how come I always had the goods stolen by the Night Owl, and if I worked with him.

It is a bleak market—there would never be a shortage of these dealers, but you still had to be careful.

We found Mr. Montgomery by tailing our landlord, Blackwood, who dealt in antique jewelries, around London one day. He was as corrupt as they came.

This meant he sourced a lot of precious items from shops like Montgomery & Sons. It was a system that fed unto itself.

"We have some items to sell," I state, my voice laced with caution. "Two valuable necklaces, both gold, one encrusted with rubies and the other with emeralds and uncut diamonds. They are both collector's items."

"Well, well," he replies, his tone distinctly unctuous as I take out the paper bags holding the necklaces and hand them over to him.

I hear James shuffling his feet. My own reluctance is palpable.

He goes over the pieces carefully, studying every tiny stone and curve. "Funny thing. Lord Wentworth was out and about last morning, going on and on about how the Night Owl has stolen a valuable gold and ruby necklace from his collection.

"This befits the description he gave. . . funny, very funny."

His gaze lands on me and roves over my face. I maintain a deadpan expression. Finally, he nods and motions for me to follow him. James trails behind, but the man raises his hand. "Only the girl."

I am led through a maze of cluttered corridors until we reach a plush office at the back of the establishment. This room exudes opulence, complete with velvet curtains, gilded furniture, and shelves brimming with expensive trinkets.

It is likely where he does business with folks like Blackwell, my landlord. Seated behind a grand mahogany desk is the man I had come to meet—Mr. Percival Montgomery, a notorious dealer in stolen goods.

The man who brought me here hands him the necklaces, and we stand as he examines them under a magnifying glass.

"Quite some finds, my dear," he finally says, a sly smile on his lips. "But—"

I brace myself.

"You must understand the risks involved in selling such precious items! The market is flooded with dealers who won't think twice before exploiting the likes of pretty girls like you!"

I clench my fists, knowing he's not lying. "I am well aware," I reply. "But I expect a fair price."

"Oh, my dear girl, fair prices are subjective in our line of work." Montgomery laughs condescendingly. "Especially when you bring necklaces that match the description of two very precious items stolen from the manors of dukes in the last week itself."

I blush furiously. In a more careful world, I would wait at least a month or more before selling items from recent heists. But I need the money. And he knows that.

"Not to worry," he continues. "I shall offer you a sum that befits the worth of your stolen trinkets, and ask no questions as to how they came to you."

He winks at me, and I know I am out of options.