Page 7

Much to our dismay, Florence Vanderbilt graces Mellie and me with her company at breakfast. A pious smile plays on her lips as she plunks down her plated egg-white omelet across from me.

“Did you enjoy the open house yesterday, Katarina?”

“Yes, it was lovely.” I focus on stirring my Cream of Wheat.

“It certainly was. These opportunities are so important in our final year, don’t you think?”

I merely nod, waiting for the shoe to drop. Florence is woefully predictable.

“Making a good match—it’s positively crucial,” she continues. “Having the right pedigree, being on similar paths…there’s so much we need to consider. Don’t you agree?”

I finally look at her, the insinuation crystal clear. I have a poor pedigree; I’m certainly not on the same path as the trifecta.

When I interviewed for admission to the Academy, there were a lot of reservations.

People just like Florence on the panel, from donor families with long ancestries.

People conditioned to turn up their noses at those beneath them on the social ladder.

But Paul had prepared me well. I pilfered an exquisitely refined dress for the interview and pinned my hair in a conservative chignon.

I walked straight in demure heels, saying “yes, ma’am” and “no, sir.” Being a con artist and a Royal paid off in dividends that day, because Lady Genevieve agreed to let me in, tuition deferred .

Unlike Florence, whose family foots the bill upfront for her education, a select few girls, like Mellie and me, will have a small pile of loans to our names when we graduate.

Loans I’ll either slowly pay back with earned wages at Raymond’s, or better yet, loans my wealthy, Academy-sanctioned husband will repay when we marry.

The Academy doesn’t take on charity cases out of the goodness of its heart, make no mistake, but once you’re in, they protect their own.

It’s just smart business, after all, to protect one’s investment.

“Katarina?” Florence’s eyes are wide. “Don’t you agree?”

Something deep inside of me—the wolf, no doubt—snarls, but I tamp it down. Instead, I give Florence the response she’s after: submission.

I make a slight huff of agreement and lower my eyes as though sufficiently chastised.

It costs little to do it, really. Only my dignity…

and if I’m being honest, I surrendered that years ago.

Buried it deep in the tunnels of the Catacombs.

Dignity doesn’t feed hungry mouths. Doesn’t pay bills or buy new shoes.

Dignity, it turns out, is shockingly expensive.

Satisfied, Florence turns to her next victim. She nods at my roommate’s plate, piled high with two buttered biscuits, eggs, and potato-sausage hash. “Smelly Mellie, you’re never going to lose five pounds that way.”

The nickname is unfortunate. It started in our first year when some of the girls found out Melinda came from a working plantation family. That she’d hauled manure and cleaned out chicken coops in her past life.

I come to Mellie’s defense. “Who says she needs to lose five pounds?”

“She does.” Florence points her fork at Mellie. “She whines about it to anyone who will listen.”

It’s true, but it’s beside the point. “Mellie’s waistline is fine. Far better a goal to lose five pounds than to pine for the ironclad shackles of marriage with every breath.” I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t you think? ”

“I always tell myself the diet starts tomorrow.” Mellie laughs nervously as Florence’s cheeks burn rouge. “But somehow, tomorrow never seems to come.”

I snort, amused, as a flash of silver-streaked hair enters my periphery. Headmistress Helena walks from table to table, dropping a piece of paper on each.

“Another social next week?” I ask, reading the notice.

“Gracious, back-to-back events?” Mellie sighs. “Talk about double duty.”

“You should be grateful.” Florence winds up for another swing. “It’s not like you have any prospects, Melinda.”

Mellie’s cheeks blotch. “Well, there’s still another year.”

“Not everyone is looking for a husband, Florence,” I chime in.

“Don’t even get me started on you.” Florence turns to me. “As if anyone would want to water down their lineage with Catacomb blood.”

A few girls at the table titter uneasily, and something inside me snaps. Florence is so narrow-minded, never looking outside the small, satin-lined box in which she lives.

Target: Florence Vanderbilt.

“You know, Florence,” I begin, “some of us have future prospects that enable us to support ourselves and not rely on a husband to repay our tuition. Marriage is a long-term commitment. I’m certainly not looking to blindly hitch my wagon to the richest fella who looks my way.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry then. Because none of them are looking your way.”

“Matthew DaMolin was.” I widen my eyes, playing innocent. “Yesterday.”

Florence gapes, silenced at long last.

With the taste of victory on my tongue, I rise from the table. “Excuse me, ladies. I have a piano lesson this morning. Chat soon.”

In the still of the night, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata is far from my fingers but playing on loop in my brain. It’s three hours to midnight, and I’m dressed in black from head to toe—a silk blouse that cuffs at my wrists, men’s trousers clinging to my thighs.

“Three guards are inside the office in the carriage house, per usual. Next patrol is in thirty minutes.” Tony steamrolls through his report.

“A food delivery truck arrived an hour ago and is parked near the east kitchen, right on schedule. Her Ladyship and darling Harry are inside.” He glances at his stolen watch of the week, a pocket timepiece with a gaudy, embossed lid and heavy chain.

He absentmindedly flicks it open and closed.

“They ate late tonight because Major Harry had a meeting at city hall.”

Paul moves toward the iron gate. “Let’s get closer.”

Astor Manor is surrounded by an eight-foot wrought iron fence topped with barbed finials. There are no breaches around the perimeter, but ornamental fences only keep honest folks out.

When Paul locks his fingers together, I plant my foot to vault over. I graze the top before dropping down the other side. Abe springs up next, but he balances between spikes. One by one, the boys haul each other over the wall.

We move east around the manor, keeping to the shadows.

When we reach the rear, we drop to our bellies and crawl to hide within the opulent landscaping of the sunken neo-Roman garden.

From this vantage, we can clearly see into the house.

The entire posterior is lined with panels of mullioned floor-to-ceiling windows.

Grandiose Roman pillars stand sentinel on the outside portico.

At three stories tall and twenty-six thousand square feet with thirteen bedrooms, six fireplaces, nineteen baths, and eight sitting rooms—plus the attached carriage house—Astor Manor is a monstrosity of marble-glazed brick in the heart of Savannah.

Like clockwork, it’s lights-out for Lady Astor in the master bedroom a half hour after dinner, but Harry stays up, working in his third-floor office until almost midnight.

When the lamp is finally extinguished, we wait for his bedroom light to flick on, but it never does.

Instead, a door on the first floor opens. Light spills into the gardens.

“Fuck,” Paul hisses, dragging us deeper into the brush.

Two gentlemen stride across the portico, pausing to lean against a pillar. One is most certainly Harry. The second is tall with a lanky build and sharp jawline. His suit, even in the dark, appears immaculately tailored. His face is in shadow, but there’s something familiar about him.

“A little late for visitors, don’t you think?” Abe whispers.

“I know him,” I breathe, furrowing my brow as the two gentlemen light a cigarette to share. They’re standing so close, their shoulders brush. “I’m certain I’ve seen him before. At the Academy.”

Harry takes a deep drag on the cigarette, then passes it to his friend.

Tony wrinkles his nose in distaste. “How ’bout you spring for a second light, gentlemen? Honestly.”

The two men finish their smoke, then disappear back inside. Less than ten minutes later, Harry’s bedroom light turns on briefly, then off. Abed at long last.

“Harry is the problem,” Abe says once the house is dark. “Lady Astor is regimented and predictable. She never deviates from her routine, but Harry…”

“Sometimes he’s home for dinner, sometimes he’s not. Some nights he’s in bed by ten, other times he’s up half the night,” I say.

Tony gestures to the portico. “And apparently, some nights he invites mysterious gringos over for bedtime smokes. There’s no pattern. ”

We’ve hashed this out a hundred times, and it always comes down to the same thing.

Harry.

It’s almost impossible to pin down a night to run the job with him in the picture.

There are certain constants, of course. Dinner is served at seven o’clock sharp.

If Harry has a late meeting, it’s pushed back by an hour.

Lady Astor is always in bed by nine thirty p.m. and rises promptly at six in the morning.

Staff members receive food deliveries on Tuesday and Thursday nights.

A donation truck swings by on Monday mornings.

The fireplaces are cleaned Monday evenings, and the windows are washed on Friday mornings. The list goes on and on.

“There’s a military patron gala downtown the first Sunday of October,” Tony says. “They’ll both be gone all night for it.”

“That’s over two weeks away,” Abe points out.

“And the fireplaces will be filthy on a Sunday.” I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “Which is less than optimal.”

“It’s almost one.” Tony consults his watch, and we return to silently casing the house. At 1:03, a soft light flicks on in the master suite. Moments later, a second one goes on in the bathroom.

“She’s unbelievable.” Tony shakes his head as he pulls out his small book to note the time. “Even pisses on schedule.”

Every night we’ve watched, Lady Astor has arisen between 12:55 and 1:18 a.m. for a nighttime bathroom break. On average, it takes her seventy-three seconds, start to finish.

“This is our window,” Paul muses. “Ten o’clock p.m. to one thirty a.m.”

I shake my head. “But Harry—”

“We’ll have to get him out,” Paul says, stopping me short. “Either that or neutralize him.”

Tony yawns, and it travels around our circle. I sink into Paul’s side .

“Close your eyes, Kitty-Kat,” he whispers, kissing my temple. “I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

It’s tempting, and he’s so warm. Hard and soft in all the right places too. Knowing I won’t miss much, I let my eyelids drift to half mast, then fully closed.

It’s a safe bet because after two a.m., we enter what Abe calls the witching hours. The time when creation falls quiet. All is still, everyone in the world sound asleep. Everyone except ghosts and demons and witches.

And thieves.