Flora

I am a woman with a singular purpose. For all intents and purposes, that means I am no woman tonight.

My heart races beneath my nondescript cloak as I deftly maneuver through the dimly-lit streets of Covent Garden.

The boy they call the Night Owl needs no permission—to be where he isn't supposed to be, to sever an alliance, or to change a rich man's fortune with the turn of a coin.

"Promise you won't get caught." James drops a friendly arm around my shoulder.

I scowl. "That's the least of my concerns. Do we have a buyer yet?"

The item I covet needs to be sold. It is of no use to me as a jewel—I do not fancy adornments. The money is what I need.

"We do. When I told him what we're getting him. . . I swear, Flo, his eyes 'bout fell outta their sockets."

I chuckle wryly. "If I get it."

"You're the Night Owl. There's nothing you can't get." James looks at me with moony eyes. I ignore the discomfort seeping up my spine and gently extricate myself.

"Go on back home," I reply instead, nudging him gently. "I'll be back before the night is done."

"I hate leaving my favorite sneak thief alone."

"You know I work best when I work solo."

James sighs and turns. "Okay. I'll keep the bread warm."

I watch him disappear into a crowd of busy men returning home. Men who know me not by face, but as the Notorious Night Owl, Sneak Thief Extraordinaire.

What a title to have when titles define everything.

I cross the bridge over the murky waters of the Fleurie.

Of course, they are wrong in thinking I am a petty sneak thief, albeit a good one.

Down on the other end, a deserted main square will lead me to my destination for tonight.

Like I was saying, nothing I do is for petty reasons. Every act has a deliberate intent, and every favor I indulge to my patrons has a list of clauses that they must fulfill.

You make your bed with a bunch of scallywags, and you learn to make do with whatever life has tossed your way.

The gas lamps cast a dim glow on the cobblestones, their feeble light only serving to enhance the secrecy of my mission.

I clutch a small, leather-bound journal in my hands. If luck chooses to be on my side, I will need to look at it only once.

But that's just the thing about luck, isn't it? I don't live a life in corsets and teacups or fancy carriages. The only things driving me are reasons.

Sometimes, they're good. Sometimes, they just are.

I have no glorious or sacrificial intentions. The money is a means of survival. And it's a whole process—stealing a precious artifact and converting it into liquid assets.

In most genteel families, girls have no knowledge of how the world and economy works.

But like I said, I am no girl. Not right now, at least.

I smile, the thought of living another kind of life is so foreign to me.

What would it be like to sit in a carriage, in a fluffy gown with crimps of the finest silk? I imagine a duke looking into my green eyes and commenting on my alabaster complexion. The mere idea makes me giggle.

Kate would say it's still possible.

My sweet Kate. She thinks I can rise from the ashes of my found family and live a life of riches. That I have the brains and the looks.

What I have is a fiery urge to take what we need to make her healthy. But with her condition, I'll be lucky if I can just get her a few extra years.

Again. Luck. That fiendish mistress.

London has little sympathy for sneak thieves like me. But I've earned a different kind of respect. It comes from being fantastically good at what I do.

Word on the streets is that the Night Owl never leaves a job unfinished, no matter the cost.

I grimace. It's a tall reputation to live up to.

The Wentworth Manor looms ahead, its grand façade a stark contrast to the other homes across the street. But I am early.

It would be a fool's errand to attempt my heist right now, so instead, I become one with the streets.

In the depths of the night, Covent Garden has become a tapestry of poverty and riches unfolding beneath a canopy of mist and biting cold. Gas lamps struggle against a thick fog. A ghostly glow hovers above the cobblestones winding through the labyrinthine streets.

I slip past a symphony of clattering carriages, hurried footsteps, and murmured conversations. My eyes flit between the destitute corners and opulent establishments gracing the main thoroughfares.

Passing by a modest tavern, its windows frosted with condensation, my senses settle on a warm aroma wafting from inside.

I can detect a cauldron filled to the brim with a bubbling stew. Unable to stop myself, I step inside.

Pots of broth, rich with root vegetables and scraps of meat, welcome me.

I pause at the threshold, allowing the siren call of humble sustenance to settle down. Patrons huddle around roughly-hewn tables, their faces illuminated by the flickering of candles.

Weathered hands clasp sturdy bowls, their contents steaming, savory, and hot.

The tavern keeper is a stout man with a twinkle in his eye. He ladles generous portions into chipped ceramic bowls.

My mouth waters at the sight of the veggies—turnips, parsnips, and carrots, interspersed with rough little bits of meat. Suddenly, I'm acutely aware that I haven't had a meal in over ten hours.

Approaching the tavern keeper, I smile and place a few coins upon the worn counter. This is going to cost me, but my stomach has a reasoning of its own. "A bowl of your hearty stew, if you please," I request, keeping my voice gravelly. It's a trick I've mastered.

"Aye, little boy," the tavern keeper replies, casting a smile on me. He seems kind. He ladles a steaming portion into a bowl and hands it over to me.

I take it and settle down at a corner table, my ears catching fragments of conversations surrounding political intrigue and the imminent threat of Napoleon's expansionist plans.

A group of men huddle together at another corner table, their voices muffled. One, a distinguished figure with a furrowed brow, gestures emphatically as he speaks.

"Have you seen the latest report from the War Office? Napoleon's forces are making significant gains on the continent. There is nothing the man won't do."

His companion, a younger man, leans in. "What are the dukes doing about it? I heard the Crown is trusting them to negotiate."

"Not much they can do when part of Napoleon's plans involve destroying the whole dukedom?"

"You don't say?" he replies, shocked.

The man nods sagely. "Aye. And from what I know, he has spies in the system. People of influence who will sell their kingdoms for some power in the new world order, as Napoleon wants to call it."

My ears perk up at the mention of the Duke of Wentworth.

Whispers of corruption and alleged connections with the French have long tainted his name, but with a family like his, he has become untouchable. Until tonight, at least.

"He lives in that grand mansion, flaunting his riches, while the rest of us can barely get by," another man says bitterly. "What of the poor?”

"At least the Duke of Danbridge cares enough to help us in what ways he can. But Wentworth is a slimy man. He turns a blind eye to everything that does not serve his greed."

I finish my stew and get up. The men cast suspicious glances at me as I leave the tavern, but in this part of town, it's normal to see scruffy little boys run around.

They know I don't have parents to go home to or domestic errands to finish.

Outside, I blend into the shadows, moving with feline ease as I approach Wentworth Manor's imposing wrought iron gates. Guards stand at every corner.

I study the building from a distance, consult with my notebook, and stuff it inside my coat before slinking into the back alley behind the mansion. There is a tall, nearly impossible wall that only I can climb.

Reaching into my pockets, I take out two climbing spikes. These are my pride and joys, made from the exploits of my first few heists. I wedge them into the wall, one after the other, and begin my ascent.

My feet instinctively seek out ridges and cavernous indents in the stone, and soon, I'm at the summit. I take a quick breath and descend.

The lawns spread out before me, but there are no guard dogs or men in sight. Perhaps tonight is lucky for me after all.

I make my way to the manor and, with my spikes, climb up until I reach the fourth window to the east on the noble floor.

By my calculations, this is the right one. I work quickly, slicing through the glass with my cutter. Before it can fall, I quickly reach out and hold the edge, feeling the tip graze my finger.

A prickling ensues, and a drop of blood appears against the paleness of my skin, almost shocking me with how red it is. Cursing, I hoist myself inside.

I enter a grand hallway, cast in rich tapestries and gleaming marble floors. Moving swiftly through the darkness, I get closer to the North Room.

The lock doesn't stand a chance against my skeleton key. Inside, I find myself surrounded by displays in glass cases, resting on velvet cushions, each more expensive than the other.

But I have eyes only for the centerpiece, a shimmering necklace of diamonds and Burma rubies, gleaming in the heart of the room.

With cautious steps, I move forward, my nerves jangling with anticipation. Just as I cross the threshold, a sudden shift in the air sends a shiver down my spine.

My instincts scream a warning too late.

A faint click reverberates through the room as my foot brushes against an imperceptible tripwire, cunningly concealed just above the floor.

The wire, expertly rigged to a hidden mechanism, reacts with swift precision to my unwitting touch.

In an instant, the wire's trigger engages. A quiet whir fills the air as a small, spring-loaded device hidden within the room is set into motion.

The tension releases, and a ballet of cause and effect unfolds. A meticulously arranged cascade of objects suspended overhead abruptly succumbs to gravity's pull.

With a symphony of clattering, they plummet earthward, their descent echoing through the room.