Page 4

When I saw her sticking an offer to rent out the attic apartment above the bakery, I stalked her home, then snooped through the apartment by crawling in through an open rooftop window.

It had a small bedroom nook and a cozy living space—cramped, but more than enough for a single woman living alone.

Then I returned to the town square and ripped the paper with the offer off the board to prevent anyone else from applying.

I knew I’d be the perfect fit for the place.

I’d worried about living so close to where most of Ultrup’s guards sleep every night, but as long as I didn’t try to steal in the vicinity of the headquarters, I was safe. Their presence also meant criminal activity in that part of town was low, since other thieves weren’t stupid either.

Etta had frowned at me fiercely when I told her I was a messenger for hire—a job that explained the strange hours I kept, as well as the occasional days-long absence from Ultrup—and told me rent was due on the first of the month, without exception.

“And no male visitors,” she’d added, her blonde eyebrows knitting together in a frown. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Neither do I,” I’d assured her. “It’s hard enough for a woman to make a living in this city.”

She’d nodded, and that had been it, the start of our slowly building relationship. We’ve been neighbors for two years now, and I’ve never been happier to call her small rental apartment home than tonight.

I climb in through the roof, unlocking the grate I’d fixed over my window.

I know all too well how easy it is to break in from above, when all people think about is securing their front door.

I plop my satchel on my small table and light a candle, then walk over to my door, unlock it, and undo the dead bolt, another precaution I’ve added since moving in.

On my doormat, which I barely ever use, is a small basket with two bread rolls and a fried, sugared treat.

Etta’s offering of the day. She always lets me have some of the leftover bread, and in return, I got her a good price for the removable grate to cover her shop windows at night, as well as the secure locks for the apartment below mine, where she lives.

If she thought my obsession with safety was weird, she never mentioned it.

I suspect she might have had some bad experiences while living on her own too, and was simply glad someone else took care of that for her.

I pick up the basket and bring it inside, already taking a bite of a bread roll.

We don’t talk often, but it feels nice to know someone was thinking of me today.

Etta’s rolls are delicious as always, and I devour one before I even sit at my table to study the papers I stole.

I reach over to take a pot of honey from a cupboard and add the tiniest bit to the bread, savoring the sweetness of my next bite.

I should eat something more filling, but I’m too tired tonight and too curious about my loot.

I light another candle from the flame of the first and unfold the papers in front of me. My heart thuds at the thought of finally finding some clues about Lindie’s whereabouts, but the first sheet of paper seems to be a letter, and a personal one at that.

Dear brother,

Thank you for your last letter. Your account of the raid on that smuggler’s house had the boys rolling around with laughter.

They all want to be like their uncle now, going out into the world and bringing down bad people, which is a noble goal to be sure, but spare your poor sister a thought and tell my children they need to be much older before they can set out on their own.

We miss you, and Mother…

I scan the rest of the letter, grimacing.

The warrior’s sister wrote this letter, and it contains absolutely no pertinent information for me.

I set the letter aside and pick up the next paper, but I encounter a similar issue.

This, too, is a personal missive, from someone named Mara this time.

She could be his beloved, or even his wife.

For a strange moment, my chest squeezes with something akin to disappointment, though it makes no sense.

Why should it matter that a woman who is not his sister is writing to him?

It must be my lack of success in finding clues about Lindie that has me feeling this way.

But I read the rest of the letter anyway, and when this Mara mentions her husband, someone called Owen, which sounds like a human name, relief swamps me, quick and surprising.

My cheeks flame as I set that letter aside, too.

It’s because I’m prying into this man’s personal affairs.

I usually deal in jewelry and rare objects, even art, and I never research my marks beyond their daily habits that allow me to time my heists perfectly.

I don’t care about their families or personal lives.

No thief worth her salt should. Knowing all that only makes our job harder.

I read another letter, skimming the lines, from someone named Gorvor, keeping up with whatever he’s doing in town.

There are references to things he must have mentioned in his correspondence, and I wish I could read that too, because the affection pouring from these conversations is apparent.

He is well-loved and has many people eagerly awaiting his return.

Something heavy lodges behind my breastbone, an ugly, unpleasant sensation. It takes my tired mind a while to realize what’s wrong, and I only figure it out when I catch myself absently rubbing my chest.

It’s envy.

He has family and friends. So what is he doing skulking around Ultrup, living in a fancy inn and wearing disguises to blend in with the humans?

I shove the stack of letters away, frustration boiling up. I risked my life tonight breaking into his room—and for what? No new clues about Lindie, no idea how he’s tied to Damen and his crew. I lost a night of rest over a pile of worthless paper.

Well. And two purses of gold.

I pull them from my satchel and set them on the table.

I untie one, tugging at the drawstring, and stare at the coins inside.

The gold gleams in the candlelight, and I grit my teeth.

I’ve never held this much money, but he had seven of these, just hidden under his bed. How? Where did it all come from?

He’s a mystery in more ways than one. I take two gold marks from the purse and slip them into my smaller one, next to the four silvers and the handful of coppers I’ve carried all day.

I’ll need to break those fat coins into change before paying Etta.

Showing up with gold would raise suspicion.

An ordinary messenger wouldn’t be carrying this much money.

The rest of the gold goes into the cubby under the loose floorboard in the far corner of the room—easy to miss, even for someone walking right over it.

That’s where I keep my rainy day fund. Now it holds more than ever.

I could move to a better apartment. Buy new clothes.

Install proper locks for both my place and Etta’s.

I could even open a bank account and store it all securely.

But I won’t. Life has shown me misfortune always comes sooner than expected. This time, I’ll be ready. No missed rent. No more living off Etta’s leftover bread.

If I’m careful, I might even stretch it long enough to find a decent job. One where I wouldn’t have to sneak across rooftops or skulk through alleyways, hunting for a purse to cut.

A yawn reminds me it’s time to rest. I make sure the floorboard is snug and indistinguishable from the rest. I check the deadbolt, turn the key twice, and rattle the window grate. Then I kick off my boots and set them by the bed, ready in case I need to run.

Finally, I remove my jacket and hood, shimmy out of my wool pants, and breathe a sigh of relief when I roll into bed.

It’ll be another long day tomorrow, trying to find Lindie.

Maybe I’ll use some of my new coin to buy information instead of stealing it.

But that would mean trusting that Damen’s men would turn on him for the right price.

I’m not sure they’d do that readily. Better to rely on myself and make sure the clues I gather are legitimate before acting on them.

Other people have a habit of letting me down, but I’ve always had my own back, so I’ll stick with that for now.

And if that warrior continues to lurk around Damen’s place, I might just pit the two of them against each other, let them squabble, and reap the profits of their distraction.