Thieves

by Lyn South

  The girls are young, probably sixteen or seventeen years old, and have already learned the art of blending pouty-lipped flirtatiousness with the piety of vestal virgins. The quintessential Renaissance contradiction: Project the aura of being supremely fuckable while maintaining the purity required to obtain an advantageous marriage.

  Men in the room swarm around them like honey bees to pollen-heavy flowers. While the noblemen’s amorous pursuit of the girls is driven by knowing their rich daddies will pay handsome dowries, the girls’ nubile bodies and Botticelli faces are a bonus no one with eyes could ignore.

  They’re not twins, but have worn matching outfits; celestial blue velvet gowns cut to highlight the delicate kirtles of ivory silk beneath their skirts and pulled through fashionable slashed sleeves. Also on display are their ample breasts, which look one deep breath away from a serious wardrobe malfunction. They look like they just stepped out of a Renaissance painting.

  More germane to my interests than their clothes are their jewels. Ropes of perfect sapphires wrap around their throats and wrists, and the most glorious diamond earrings dangle from their dainty earlobes. The antiquated clasps of the necklaces look easy enough to manipulate, but the bracelets look easier. Right. Bracelets it is, then.

  I stand behind the most flirtatious girl, close enough to smell both the pomander filled with fragrant herbs and spices that hangs from her waist and the pungent body odor it’s meant to disguise. She’s a giggling mass of energy aiming all her feminine charms at two men at the same time—one French, the other English—both seem equally enamored with her.

  The crowded room provides precious little elbow room, and she’s preoccupied enough with the men to be oblivious to my presence. This should be a breeze.

  The girl leans in to whisper to the Frenchman and I lean into her; a discreet nudge into the middle of her back to knock her slightly off balance. The girl, no time to steady herself, stumbles forward. I grab her by the waist, an attempt to soften her landing as she falls.

  “Pardon et moi.” I pull her around to face me. Her cheeks are flushed with surprise and embarrassment. “Please forgive me.”

  I make a great fuss over her, smoothing the front of her puckered gown and the strands of hair that have tugged free from the front of her French hood with one hand while the other hand drifts down to her wrist.

  A quick pop of my thumbnail under the edge of the clasp and the diamond bracelet falls into my cupped palm. I give the flustered girl a quick hug, and another apology, as I slip the bracelet into a hidden pocket in my gown and hustle myself to the opposite side of the room.

  In. Out. Done.

  “Give it back.” Fagin’s voice has a hard, sharp edge to it. She never used to treat me like a toddler caught raiding the sweets cupboard. From the day she recruited me, Fagin encouraged the prolific application of my thieving skills, and trusted I would get out of serious trouble before the shit rolled too far down the hill.

  After the Benefactors descended on us like angry gods from Mount Olympus, she changed from the pragmatic entrepreneur who’d do anything to help me succeed to a puritanical, rule-following lackey. It makes for a tightly-wound Fagin. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d spike her wine along with Trevor’s.

  It takes a few minutes of searching the banquet hall to find her; she stands near the buffet where the Vicomtess d’Auvergne zealously orchestrates the distribution of Madeira to the nobles gathered for the feast. There’s a throng of courtiers crowded around her, but Fagin remains as calm as a buoy floating effortlessly on the frenzied wave of activity around her. She peers at me over the rim of her goblet as she drinks.

  I look away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t play games with me,” she says, dryly. “Return the bracelet.”

  Merde. She saw it. “You’re the one who said robbing the English blind could be my revenge. You said—”

  “I know,” Fagin interrupts. “But what Trevor might miss reporting to the Benefactors, hidden cameras could pick up. You must follow orders exactly, and that means anything not on the acquisition list is off limits.”

  “My skills are rusty. Gotta keep myself nimble for the real work.” As rationalizations go, it’s not a bad one. But Fagin sees right through it.

  “Give it back or I will,” she says. “Going off script is dangerous for all of us and you know it.”

  In a test of wills, it’s almost an even draw between Fagin and me for who would win. We’re both stubborn. Both can hold a grudge. But Fagin holds the purse strings, so she wins.

  It takes numerous glares from Fagin to swallow my pride and work my way through the throng of courtiers between me and the Botticelli girls. When I reach them, I slip the sapphire bracelet from my pocket, stopping to finger the perfect, smooth surface of the stones before letting it slide down my skirt to the floor.

  I tap the girl on the shoulder. “Mademoiselle, I think you dropped something.”

  She follows my gaze to the floor and squeals in dismay. “My bracelet,” she says. The Frenchman bends down to retrieve it, then fastens it on her wrist. “I would have walked away never knowing it was lost. It would devastate me to lose this; it’s a gift from my father.” She clasps my hand in hers and kisses one cheek, then the other. “How can I thank you?”

  “No need to thank me,” I say in a voice so syrupy and fake it makes my teeth hurt. “Knowing you’re reunited with a cherished gift is reward enough.”

  If I had let her, the girl would’ve kept kissing my cheeks and expressing her gratitude long enough that I might have changed my mind and stolen the bracelet back. She wears stacks of identical bracelets, it’s hard to believe she would have missed one. My stomach churns with too much anger and frustration as it is, so I take my leave as quickly as I can.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Fagin says, as she watched me stalk toward the wine steward. I shoot her a dark look and she brushes it off with an eye roll. “Take a walk around the room. You’ll feel better.”

  It doesn’t make me feel better. In fact, it makes me feel worse because it has been a long time since I’ve been hog-tied like this. To compensate, I can’t resist slipping a bracelet off of another woman when Fagin’s back is turned. Now, I feel better.

  The great hall of the Staple Inn is bathed in the light of two thousand candles suspended from the ceiling by twenty enormous iron candelabras. Fires in twin hearths, one on each end of the room blaze in their grates making for a warm and cozy venue in contrast with the darkness outside and rain that falls like a curtain over the windows. Gold wreaths studded with diamonds, pearls, and rubies line the walls, and gold tissue is draped over every stationary object in the room and even a few non-stationary objects; several English ladies have co-opted sheets of tissue, wrapping them around their shoulders like fur capes.

  It’s a cheery venue. It’s festive. It’s disgusting.

  Galling, actually, considering the wealth in this room is in stark contrast with the humbler dwellings of Calais a few streets away. Even more irritating than the decor is the necessity of strolling around this grand room, smiling and making polite conversation with enemies I’d just as soon gut as look at. I wish I could treat this like just another job, but my God...I feel dirty among them. I feel trapped.

  I want to tear these golden walls down with my bare hands.

  “Is it just me or is this decadence so extreme, it’s vulgar?” Nico says, echoing my thoughts. “There’s so much wealth in this room, I’ll bet it could feed the people of Calais for a generation or more.”

  For all the vitriol in his tone, Nico’s voice in my ear is comforting. At least I know I’m not alone in loathing this whole situation. “Two-hundred and fifty-six years, six months, and eight days until the barricades arise,” I say.

  Nico goes quiet for a moment, then adds, “Vive la révolution.”

  “Thank you for the social commentary,” Fagin cuts in. “Can we nix the judgment and get back to our jobs, please?
Any sign of Mary Boleyn?”

  “Not yet,” Nico replies, sounding like Fagin has just poured a bucket of cold water over his protest. “You’ll know when the royals show up. Trumpets will sound and there’ll be the sweet smell of greed and naked ambition in the air.”

  “Nico—” Fagin says.

  “Yes, ma’am. Shutting up, ma’am,” Nico snaps and the line goes silent.

  “Speaking of greed and naked ambition, where is Trevor?” I say, scanning the room for the dimwitted lieutenant. If things went to plan, she’s passed out in her crew quarters, sleeping off the effects of the sedative Nico slipped into her wine.

  Nico’s voice breaks over the CommLink. “I think Lieutenant Lightweight may have overdone the Miracle Madeira quality control checks, if you know what I mean. She passed out ninety minutes ago. I had to carry her to her quarters.”

  I’m tempted to shoot two enthusiastic thumbs up at him through one of the many camouflaged surveillance cameras installed in the room, but I’m sure the party is streaming live to the Benefactors back home. I envision the lot of them huddled around display screens, popcorn and red licorice in hand, watching our every move.

  It sends a momentary shiver up my spine. I wish I could cut the communication just so I can work in peace, but I’m sure the assholes trying to ruin my life wouldn’t believe the “oops, did I do that” excuse for why the transmission feed inexplicably died during one of the most critical points in the mission.

  Likewise, being a little too happy about their spy’s incapacitation would be equally hard to explain, especially if Trevor suspects her reaction to the Madeira was helped along by something a little stronger than alcohol.

  “How long will she be out of commission?” Fagin asks. She casts a questioning glance in my direction, a clear sign she suspects some degree of underhandedness in the lieutenant’s condition. I give her my best “who me” shrug.

  “Don’t know for sure,” Nico replies. “I think she drank a lot.”

  “Let me know if her status changes,” Fagin says.

  “Acknowledged.” Nico replies. “If Trevor so much as flutters a drunken eyelash, you’ll know.”

  More courtiers, equally as bejeweled as the Botticelli girls, stream into the hall. I’ve been on high profile jobs where the bounty targets were worth as much as the entire Gross National Product of small countries, but this gig is in a class by itself. I should be giddy about plundering these people. Instead, it’s torturing me to look and not touch.

  “Dodger,” Fagin says in a weary, admonishing tone.

  “So unfair,” I say, making eye contact with her. “We need a Plan B to line our pockets in case this thing goes sideways, and—”

  “It can’t go sideways.” Fagin’s expression constricts into a small, tight grimace. The fear on her face, visible from across the room, is palpable. “Do you hear me, Dodger? With Trevor here, we can’t put a toe out of line. If we fail, we won’t be the only ones. The Benefactors will target everyone we’ve ever known. Hunt everyone we’ve ever loved.”

  I swallow hard. From the moment she told me of this mission, she has loudly lamented the danger we’re all in—self-preservation is always the foundation of humans’ hierarchy of needs—but this is the first time she’s mentioned concern for anyone else outside our team. It makes me wonder. Who else is there in her life that she needs to protect?

  The idea that Fagin has kept someone she loves a secret from me widens the ever-growing gap between us into a chasm of doubt and distrust. How are we going to repair all the damage? A tiny voice inside me whispers that our version of normal is gone for good.

  “Except for you, I have no family to threaten,” I say. It’s a lie. I’d risk my life to protect Nico, but admitting that on an open Comm chanel would put his head on the chopping block if it’s not already there. A deeper dive into who Fagin loves must wait as well. I hate waiting.

  “Do. You. Hear me?” The hard edge softens into an urgent, breathless plea for my compliance. “Please. Don’t let me down.”

  Merde. I close my eyes. Take a breath. “I won’t let you down,” I say with more certainty than I feel.

  “Thank you,” Fagin says, softly.

  A moment later, the courtiers burst into ecstatic applause as King Francois and King Henry enter, arm-in-arm. Lady Anne and her maids follow close behind. The French court’s most important women are absent from the gathering in protest—even Louis’ maîtresse-en-titre refuses to legitimize Anne with a meet-and-greet. Whether she provokes their jealousy or is a simple, devastating reminder that they’re all expendable if their king so decides. There’s no feminist solidarity where the Boleyn girl is concerned.

  The newly minted Marquess of Pembroke may as well be a beggar in the streets for all the disrespect her enemies heap on her.

  As the monarchs stroll like peacocks toward the head table, laid out with fine linens and expensive gold plate, the crowd parts before them like the damn Red Sea before Moses. King Henry is resplendent in clothing of purple silk embroidered with so much gold thread that the embellishments twinkle in the candlelight as he passes the candelabras. A string of fourteen enormous blood-red rubies, the smallest stone the size of a goose egg, are set in the collar. The king must’ve thought these embedded stones didn’t quite do the job because he also wears a double strand of pearls that boasts yet another gigantic ruby.

  Just one of these gems, with authenticated provenance of being worn by King Henry on this historic day, would be enough to fund my retirement a dozen times over—Nico’s and Fagin’s, too. With the risks involved, it’s stupid not to leverage every chance to line our pockets. In the mania and chaos of packing to return to England, no one would miss one or two baubles if they went missing.

  “Dodger, Mary Boleyn is at a table to your left,” Nico says. “That’s your cue to become her new best friend.”

  I sigh. “Got her.”

  Turns out to be easier said than done. Mary’s table is filled with courtiers, so I’m forced to sit at a table across from her. Noticeable, even from a distance, is Mary’s necklace. It’s a ruby. It’s not as large as the goose egg-sized stone King Henry wears, but it’s close. The stone is square-cut and set in a gold mount. A pearl nearly the size of the ruby dangles from a cabochon positioned just above Mary’s cleavage.

  My palms itch again. Dammit, Fagin.

  The feasting passes slowly; God, these people can eat. I spend most of the meal working my way closer to Mary, but every time I get close, the consummate social butterfly floats to another table.

  As expected, our Miracle Madeira is the toast of the party. Everyone is wrangling for a cup. The Vicomtess d’Auvergne guards the wine supply like a prison planet death row guard; she has already threatened courtiers she has deemed unworthy of sampling the wares with severe maiming several times.

  The unworthy designation seems to be reserved for anyone below the rank of duke or duchess. This goes over like a boulder in an avalanche when Lady Anne’s father, the Earl of Wiltshire—not immediately recognized by the Vicomtess—is turned away like a commoner as he reaches for a goblet. Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, guffaws at the snub; he despises Thomas Boleyn.

  “Heads up,” I say as Lady Anne excuses herself from the head table, followed by her ladies, including Mary. “Looks like the real show is about to begin.”

  With a grand flourish, King Henry announces a special treat for the French king and, with a nod to the English musicians assembled on the far side of the banquet hall, music begins to play.

  Seven masked female dancers, all clothed in crimson and gold, glide into the hall and begin to dance. The ladies choose male partners from the audience. Though masked, I can tell Lady Anne from the rest because she’s the one who leads King Francois to the dance floor.

  The French king is bewitched by the enchantress, but I can’t tell if he is ignorant that it’s Anne behind the mask or if he’s just playing along. Their dance is seductive enough to elicit gasps from the pious co
urtiers in the crowd. In one move, Francois pulls Anne into his arms and, twirling, lifts her into the air. He buries his nose into her midsection before setting her down again.

  Fagin, drink in hand, appears next to me. “The minute Mary Boleyn gets off the dance floor,” she says, “put yourself in her path.” She grips my forearm. I don’t think she realizes how tightly she’s holding me until I wince and glance down at my arm. She blinks, then releases me with a loud exhale. Her eyes look tired. Almost as an afterthought, she strokes my cheek. “We’re all counting on you.”

  King Henry moves toward the dance floor. He steps behind Anne and, with a grand flourish, snatches her mask away, revealing her identity. Francois seems thoroughly surprised and throws his head back, roaring with a hearty laugh. He brings her gloved hand to his lips, then with a wave invites everyone to dance. As the floor fills with people, Mary Boleyn slips quietly away from the crowd, headed toward the windows at the other end of the hall. I grab two wine glasses filled with Miracle Madeira and follow.

  Before I reach her, she’s intercepted by three men who surround her like foxes circling a prize hen. They’re as exquisitely dressed and bejeweled as the Botticelli girls, which means they’re high-ranking and important. They’re also supremely drunk and more than a little rowdy.

  At first, Mary seems happy for the attention, enjoying their flirtatious overtures like a cat playing with a toy. They’re polite enough at first, but they move to sandwich her between them and begin pawing at her.

  The first man, clothed in a fur-trimmed cloak, smells of onions and beer. The second, a short and crusty fellow in a plumed hat nearly as tall as he is, presses himself against Mary. He must smell equally as bad because no matter which direction Mary turns, she looks barely able to control her gag reflex. A third man, a sinister-looking rogue with a wide, thick scar running the length of his right cheek has his nose buried in her hair.

  Their hands are everywhere, seemingly intent on fondling as much of her as possible in the shortest amount of time, and nobody else in the room seems to notice. It triggers a sick flash of a long-buried memories, off being similarly ambushed by two of Captain Bartholomew’s crew. Bartholomew had intervened before the assault progressed too far, but only because it would cost him money if he had to replace me.