Priceless

**Author's Note:** So, what was supposed to be a short one-shot - toying with the idea of a romance for Garrett - became this longer piece of work, inspired in part by a quote from Shakespeare. I swear, my mind draws inspiration for writing at the strangest times and just...throws it into a story.

Moving on, now. After playing Thief (2014), I became drawn to the world and the lore of Garrett's life. It's a fascinating, dark story that I simply wanted to add to - but through the eyes of a different beholder: an innocent citizen who encountered the Master Thief and became his next victim. Just with a twist. Therefore, I hope you, dear readers, enjoy this tale; and I thank you for taking the time to read my story. Now, let it begin...

**_Disclaimer: I, sweettea1, do not own Thief in any shape or form. The OCs and scenes not seen in Thief (2014) are my creations, and I only claim ownership to them, and them alone._**

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**_Priceless_**

* * *

"_How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world." –William Shakespeare_

* * *

I paced the floor, hands curled around my upper arms in a disgruntled fashion and forehead creased with contemplation. My heels clicked softly against the swept, wooden floor, eliciting an intrigued expression from the gentleman sitting comfortably at my father's desk. He watched my every movement through his dense spectacles, grey eyes sparkling with dark humor and dreadful patience – like a predator waiting for his prey to stray too far from safety. The similarity struck my frayed nerves sharply and I stopped suddenly, spinning around to face the man who seemed to believe he had me entrapped in his compromise.

How wrong. How so _utterly_ wrong.

Stepping forward, I placed my palms gingerly on the oaken desk's surface, lips pursed and eyebrows arched upwards. "Do you mean to tell me, Gregory, that my father's fortunes are…inaccessible to me?" I asked, fingernails digging into the wood. "But I thought they were entitled to me?"

Gregory, tilting his shiny, bald head to the side, gave a pitiful smile—a smile that made me want to sneer. "I am sorry, Miss Reynor. I know your father had intended to give you his remaining belongings if anything ever happened to him—bless his soul—but I simply cannot hand those properties over to you. Technically, you are not the head of this household."

"_I_ am the only surviving member of this family," I countered, lifting a hand briefly to gesture at the empty room. "There should be no _technicalities_."

He shrugged, bony fingers collecting a stack of papers and stacking them neatly. "Well Katherine, I wish I could help you, but I cannot risk my life and fortune over your complications. I am sure your father expected you to have found a suitor before his death so you could gain his fortunes."

I hated the amusement that reflected in his emotionless gaze. It mirrored the disappointment that had often mingled with my father's whenever I disdainfully disapproved of some judgment or ruling of his making. Pain ached deep within my chest, unfortunately bringing a visible wince to my frame. However, I quickly mustered whatever determination I had left, straightening my posture respectfully and meeting Gregory's steady stare defiantly.

"To marry a man who lusts only for money would leave me poorer than I am currently," I remarked, turning sideways and pointing my index finger toward the door. "Therefore, if you have nothing for me, then I suggest that you leave, Mr. Ulundy, before I have you forcefully removed."

Gregory stashed his papers into a thick, white envelope, claiming the quill and ink that rightfully belonged to my father and scribbling a few delicate words onto the clean surface. Then, replacing the items sloppily onto the table, he stood and hobbled toward the door. He turned the brass knob; however, before he opened the door, he glanced over his shoulder at me.

"I hope to receive a payment for my services by the end of the week, Miss Reynor. Good day," he said, dipping his head and departing.

I shouted after him. "I do not know how you expect me to pay with no money!"

Of course, Gregory did not respond to my retort, only audibly plodding down the steps and slamming the front door as he left my home—or, should I say, my _father's_ home. I spun around, a choked sob leaving my throat as I snatched up the letter opener and punched it through the middle of the white envelope. I held the silver object there for several long moments, my breath heavy and my heart throbbing. But once those precious moments of silence expired, I collapsed to my knees, face buried in my hands as tears formed in my eyes.

Footsteps entered the open doorway, edging closer to my trembling frame until I felt a large, calloused hand upon my shoulder. I lifted my head, brushing aside a few strands of hair away from my face as I stared at the visitor somberly. The man was Horace Grunge, a rather simple man who tended to my father's horses—or, at least, he had originally, before the Gloom had taken the City. Now the horses were either maddened by the Gloom's effects or already dead. I had predicted that Horace would leave my father's estate rather quickly after the horses began to die and my father was killed by the same epidemic disease; however, he remained, one of the few assistants that actually cared enough to stayed—a very short list, composed of the chef, Federico, and the housekeeper, Fiona Wither. A blessing, I knew at heart, but I still recoiled at the number of seemingly loyal members of this household that had departed soon after the death of my father. Perhaps I had thought wrongly about them—perhaps they were not the people I had trusted deeply.

"Horace…I do not know what to do. I have no power in this situation whatsoever," I mumbled, words so jumbled I was surprised that Horace could understand me. "Unless I find myself a suitor, then I will lose everything here."

Horace nodded, grim. "It is difficult to live life without consequences, Katherine. You knew the risks you were taking every time you rejected a certain man's presence."

My vision blurred with fresh tears, but I hastily wiped them away. "I know, I know, I know, I know, I know…and I am _sorry_. I never intended for this to happen to us. I just…I did not want to give up my freedom for a man who strived for my father's money rather than my affection." I huffed a dry, humorless laugh. "I bet they will be lining up now, asking for my hand in marriage. The dirty work is done, now they can have my wealth. Thieves, the lot of them."

"Perhaps," Horace allowed, shrugging slightly. He retracted his hand, resting his elbow upon his bent knee. "And perhaps you will have to take a blind step forward in order to gain what you desire—what your father intended you to have after his passing." A kindly smile graced his lips. "If I know Katherine now as well as I did when she was a mere child, then I know she will assert herself firmly. There is not a soul who can trample upon her without being dragged into the mud with her."

I wanted to mimic the smile—the smile that always managed to brighten my mood or encourage me to press forward through any difficulties that may block my path. But this time was different. The weight of the world sat heavily upon my shoulders, and the few options that remained at my disposal surrounded me on all sides. I had to make the hard decisions. I had to make the sacrifices that I have avoided for years. I had to stand tall and proud to accept my fate, whether I wanted to or not. It was inevitable, and I have, deep in my subconscious, known that this day would come. I have feared its approach as long as I could remember.

Placing a shaky hand upon the desk's smooth surface, I hauled myself to my feet, my skirt slowly unfolding with newly acquired wrinkles. I lifted my opposite hand, wiped away the streaming tears with my thumb, and combed the loose hair away from my forehead. I turned my gaze to Horace, who was standing honorably before me at a respectable distance of two strides. His weathered features were attentive, as if he were a soldier waiting for orders; but they still retained their permanent softness, as if he were my father instead of the man resting indefinitely at the morgue.

"Horace, you are a wise man. Gallant, too, if I may speak so profoundly," I said, the muscles around my jaw taut. "And if I ever recover my father's wealth, I will promise you anything your heart desires. You are a good man—I owe you the world."

Surprise shined brightly in his tawny eyes, as well as a deep gratefulness that brought a genuine grin to my lips. "And you, Miss Reynor, will bring this family honor—I have not a doubt in my mind that you will," he responded, drawing his shoulders back in polite, proper posture. "I ask of nothing from you, for that money is yours alone and whoever you wish to share it with. But, if there is one thing I may be so bold to ask of…"

"Speak, and I will listen," I encouraged, extending a hand toward him pleadingly.

"I wish to recover my sole purpose. I wish to have my horses once again."

My eyebrows arched upwards dynamically. "And this all you wish?" I asked cautiously, taken aback.

"Yes, ma'am."

Another smile formed, this one mostly composed of disbelief. "Then it shall be granted—make no mistake, it will be my foremost goal."

He nodded. "You have my deepest thanks."

* * *

The night was cold and utterly dark. Desperate, woeful cries filtered through the cool air, striking the cobblestones and seeping through the shutters of every stately home on the street. The clank of armor, the foul-mouthed language, and the brash laughter of guards accompanied the haunted echoes of the city, seemingly alternating with the pleas of the sickened population.

I hated such clamor. I missed the rhythmic beat of hooves on stone, the laughter of mischievous children, the shouts of the merchants, the rowdy remarks of drunken men, the scolding voice of mothers and wives—sounds that I once cringed at became a longing memory. Why were we cursed with such sadness while the towns and cities beyond our limits thrived and grew rich with prosperity? Why were we made to suffer? I ask myself that question every day and every night since my father was infected by the Gloom, and I spat at the floating queries in my mind as soon as my father passed away. They were hurtful questions, poking and prodding at my wounds like a curious child clawing at a scab on his knee. I hated that feeling, too—just as much as the mourning of the ill and the guffaws of the Baron's Watch.

Another drawn, tearful shriek managed to enter my quarters, despite the secure, locked state of my windows. I covered my ears, shutting my eyes tightly and grimacing at the noise. At least the guards had fallen silent, their conversation waning away along with the screech. Eventually, peace reclaimed its place and I lowered my hands to my lap, staring at my reflection in the mirror and licking my lips. I recoiled at the awful taste of the paint I had coated on them earlier that afternoon, reaching forward to recover the damp cloth that sat on the table's surface and removing the remainder of the red, glossy paint from my lips.

My head spun lightly from the stresses that had clung to my day, and the temptations of sleep seemingly pulled me toward the bed and its lush fabrics—but I refused. Sleep was worthless. It stole the little time I had to recover my losses and to regain my wits. It clouded my mind with fantasies that I could not acquire, despite whatever efforts I put forward. Nothing was attainable; everything was too far out of reach.

I leaned forward, elbows propped on the table and palms pressed against my forehead. The cloth still hung loosely from my fingertips, gravity eventually dragging it back to its original spot.

_You have your mother's strength and courage, but you have no wisdom to control it with. Use your mind, my daughter—it is your greatest weapon._

My father told me this when I had rejected a proposal to a stately man who—despite his envious greed and lack of respect to the men and women who kept this building in operation—had probably loved me. I had been young at the time, yes, and the flaws that blotted his courtly nature had stood out starkly in my eyes. I simply did not love him equally, and my stubborn mindset would not bend its knee to any reasoning. Perhaps I had made the ultimate mistake that day—perhaps, if I had accepted that man's proposal, then I would not be in this position. I would have the wealth my father had accumulated, not the poverty that resulted from the Baron's laws.

My right hand clenched into a tight fist, and I slammed it down onto the table, rattling the objects resting on its surface. What have I become? Why was my mind set on obtaining my father's money now? I am just as greedy as the men who befriended my family, looking for loans and large paychecks.

"I am a _wretch_," I muttered, shaking my head in utter disappointment.

Then, there was a shuffle—soft and subtle, like boots scraping across the wooden floors. My eyes darted upward, staring into the mirror and at the crouched figure pressed against the wall in the reflection. I gasped sharply, and a set of eyes—one dark as night, the other a misty blue—snapped in my direction, alarmed and tense. We watched each other keenly for several long moments, neither of us making the first move—my reason spawning from my fear of turning around blindly and earning a knife in the heart.

I considered screaming for Horace or Fiona, but my voice refused to work. Besides, the figure may be gone before they ever touched the door handle, and my shrieks and lack of proof would only serve as a sign of delusions and, possibly, the Gloom. Therefore, my logic began to grope for a plan—a course of action that would conclude my dilemma easily.

_Federico_.

The chef's name and image appeared in my thoughts, along with a distant memory that I had long since forgotten (curse my forgetfulness). Roughly three years ago, after the brutal murder of my neighbors, Federico had decided that it would be appropriate to provide both my father and I some means of protection—or, at least, advise us to concoct a plan if the same were to happen to us. My father waved aside the notion, insisting that the Baron would increase the security of our street because of the incident. Federico, however, was not convinced. He provided me with a weapon: a kitchen knife, edge sharpened and steel gleaming. He told me to use it only if I felt threatened, and to never breathe a word to my father about his 'gift'—said that my father would never understand until he realized too late the importance of self-defense. Perhaps the tempered chef truly had foresight.

My fingers crept toward the mirror, searching for the crevice between the wall and the mirror's frame that nestled the aforementioned knife. Unfortunately, the figure saw my actions before I could get a good grip on the knife; yet, he did nothing but watch me intently. Why was he not running? Did he not believe I was strong enough to defend myself?

Anger boiled within me, and I wriggled the knife free of its prison, stood, and spun around wildly, the knife glinting in the candlelight as I pointed its tip toward the intruder. But the figure was gone. It had vanished.

"No…no, no, no, no…" I repeated, hand trembling. Did I have the Gloom? Was I imagining things? Was I seeing nonexistent people in the shadows?

I stood up, legs weak and knuckles turning white as I gripped the handle of my weapon more firmly. "Where are you?" I demanded, spinning around in place and searching the entirety of the room. Nothing appeared—nothing happened. "_Where are you?_"

"Here."

I turned, finding the figure leaning against the table, arms folded loosely across his chest and eyes shining mischievously in the flickering light. A strangled cry of alarm slipped my lips as I swung the knife, bewildered and utterly frightened by the unannounced visitor now standing behind me within my quarters. He dodged, though, and caught my wrist in one of his calloused hands, fingering the blade delicately with his opposite hand before ripping it from my grip and tossing it to the floor. Raw fear shot down my spine at the ease this intruder had disarmed me, and desperation pushed itself to the forefront of my mind.

"_Hor_—"

A hand pressed against my mouth, muffling my shout to the stable master. Breath hitching, I stared, terrified, at the figure before me, fighting to get my wrist free of his grasp. He abided, releasing his grip and using his now free hand to put a single index finger to his unseen lips: a silent demand to keep quiet. I then expected him to remove his hand, and my throat tightened as I waited for the opportunity to scream my plea of help. However, as if reading my thoughts, he kept his hand plastered to my face, mismatched eyes studying me carefully.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said at last, his voice sly and barely above a scratchy whisper. My eyebrows furrowed at the statement, hopefully expressing my confusion and disbelief in his dull promise. Why would I trust his word when he had entered my home—_my private quarters_—without permission? My gaze darted briefly to the bow strapped to his back, along with the tails of arrows that poked out of their sheath. He was armed—another reason to be wary.

He followed my line sight, observing his own weapons. Then he turned casually back to me. "Alright. Maybe I can see where you would hold doubts," he remarked.

Was he mocking me? I narrowed my eyes, raising my left hand and swinging it toward him to slap him across the cheek. He merely raised an arm and blocked the blow with his forearm. "Easy there, heroine. Let's not get feisty. I don't have the time," he said, his flippancy gradually declining as he reached the last sentence. "Look: I'll remove my hand, but you have to stay quiet. I don't want the Baron's Watch barging into the place, and I don't particularly think you do, either. Can we agree on that?"

I nodded, expression hard.

"Good. Now, here we go. One, two, _three_."

He retracted his hand and I hurried backwards, colliding painfully with the wall. My heart pounded against my chest, and my breath kept catching in my throat as I forced the air into my lungs. Cautiously, I lifted my head, meeting the half-amused, half-curious stare of the cloaked figure.

"Who are you? What do you want?" I asked breathlessly, wrapping my arms around myself in a form of pitiful protection.

He shifted, returning to his position at the table and admiring its contents. "I'm neither your enemy nor your killer. How's that?" he asked, curling his fingers around a clear, glass bottle of perfume. He brought it close to his face, eyes twinkling—or, rather, one of his eyes was twinkling, for the misty blue one held no depth. "You don't find many of these in the city anymore. Have you been saving it for a rainy day?"

I stood there, completely baffled. "What?" I asked exasperatedly.

He considered me for a moment, then replaced the perfume bottle on the table. His fingers began to wander again, playing across the powders and perfumes and jewelry that I had carelessly sorted on the wooden surface. However, as he ventured closer toward a necklace with three ruby pendulums hanging from its silver chain, my boldness kindled back to life.

"Do not overstay your welcome," I warned, eyeing the necklace particularly. The deep, rich red of the rubies glinted fondly in the candlelight, as if replaying memories from the past in every angle and curve. It was an alluring treasure indeed, passed down from generation to generation until my mother finally looped the chain around my neck and proclaimed the necklace to my sole responsibility. Little did I realize that the gems were also meant to serve as a reminder to the woman who raised me so lovingly, for she was swept away by the waves of the roiling sea. Another tragedy that befell a lavish family—a repeated mockery, I would say, to a cliché story of grief and despair and unmerited attention.

The figure swaddled in black pivoted his head to the side, admiring the three rubies that lay a few inches away from his grimy fingertips. I watched his hands carefully, detecting the slight twitch in his knuckles, as if he longed to hold the necklace in his palms and feel every ridge that contributed to its beauty. The words my mother had told me—the history she had relayed about that piece of jewelry—swam in my mind, prodding at an inner fire that threatened to break free of its furnace. This…this _shadow_ could not have it! It was my mother's, rightfully passed down to me. He has no ownership.

But, again, he read my mind, as if it were an open book. "This city was crafted for us all, was it not? And any of its wonders and beauties are available to us—no matter how you obtain them," he said, fingers gliding across the table, his boots softly scuffing across the wood floors to stand at the end of aforementioned table. Now both of his hands were positioned on either side of the prized necklace, mismatched gaze drifting upward to meet my own. "In short: what is yours is mine also."

"Is that what you go by?" I spat, taking a defiant step forward but keeping my arms locked around my torso. "That is _thievery_. The Watch will have your hands if I alert them to your presence—your _mischief_. I just breathe a word, and you become a wanted man."

His right eyebrow raised slightly, crinkling a scar that I had not noticed before. Was that scar the cause of his misty blue eye? "If you want my honesty, then I doubt you will speak about this incident to the Baron's men. The guards, the soldiers—you care for none of them. So why not let a 'thief'—as you have labeled me—sneak and steal right under their noses?"

I paled at his suggestion, eyes widening in disbelief. How could he even proclaim such propaganda? How could he accuse me of traitorous thoughts? How could he, the trespasser, blame me of crimes that I have not committed?

…How could such an offer be tempting?

I turned my face away sharply, suddenly shameful. "What influences you to say those things?" I asked quietly, the sound of my heartbeat loud in my ears.

I saw him wrap an arm around his body, reaching within his tattered, black cloak. My body tensed and my eyes sought the knife lying idling on the floor between me and him. However, before I could build the courage to take action, the shadowy figure lifted a hand in a halting gesture and drew back his other, searching hand. My eyebrows soared high upon my brow once I saw the white envelope pinched between his fingers, the hole I had punched in its center suddenly very obvious in the wavering light.

"I may have read a few lines," he admitted, shrugging lightly, as if he had made an honest mistake—like a child that had accidentally broken his mother's favorite vase. "And if I'm not mistaken, you have quite a quarrel with the Baron yourself—or at least with his requirements to earn your father's property, despite the contents of the will. I cannot imagine you would want to draw any more attention to yourself, unless you hope to receive some pity in return. You seem like a smart woman, though—and I think we both know that the Baron isn't a sympathizer to anyone."

He extended the crisp envelope toward me, openly returning it to my possession. I stared at the letter warily, cautiously stepping forward and approaching the opposite end of the table. My eyes traveled upward to study his expression; but, I found no visible deceit—only a sliver of curiosity. I reached my own hand toward the enveloped, grasped the corner, and, when he released his hold, yanked it toward myself.

He hummed. "Jumpy, aren't we?" he mused, splaying his fingers on the table.

I glanced down at the envelope. "How did you reseal the letter so…" –I paused, jaw tightening as I forced the next word to leave my lips – "…flawlessly?"

His eyes—_eye_—twinkled again, and I could only imagine the smirk that lay hidden under his mask. "Practice," he answered.

I glowered. "Were you planning on keeping it to yourself?"

"I was willing to do you a favor and burn that letter."

"I would have burned it _myself_ if I so desired that outcome."

"Then excuse my misconception."

I shook my head, a few stray hairs falling free of their bun. The envelope remained clasped in my hand, my fingertips white and the paper crumpling from the pressure I applied to it. This entire encounter was strange—_peculiar_, if I may add. I was conversing with a common thief, who had given me a hallow promise that he would spare my life. I knew he could easily draw his bow, string an arrow, and send it into my heart before I could inhale another breath; or, if he so wished, he could stoop down, scoop up the kitchen knife, and slit my throat. Surely a thief was trained in the ways of killing—a failsafe if the original plan went awry.

That begged the question: did he plan this meeting? Did he want something from me?

I pursed my lips, glaring at the shadow once more. "Have you come for my father's riches?"

"Still convinced that I am a thief," he mused wryly, rocking back on his heels. He sighed, almost disappointedly. "Perhaps I was interested in what I might find." He tilted his head. "I'm not much of a gentleman—so I assumed I would have no luck winning your heart."

"You speak too fondly of yourself," I said dryly.

"And you seem to believe yourself witty. I would advise a different tactic while dealing with the Baron's lackeys." He turned smoothly on his heel, the fabric of his cloak fluttering and rustling in reaction to the quick movement—and, ultimately, snuffing the candle and plunging the room into darkness. I refrained a gasp, retreating toward the safety of the wall once more in a pathetic display of fear. Strange: I had been so bold moments earlier; yet now that the light was gone and the shadow morphed with its companions, I was terrified. Would he go back on his promise? Would he kill me for the knowledge I had obtained, despite the lack of consistency his words had held? Truly, they had been riddles to distract me from the answers I desperately desired from my intruder.

The curtains were thrown aside, allowing milky moonlight to spill across the floor. The shadowy figure stood before it, his dark cloak soaking in the silver rays and blotting them out of existence—like an ever-consuming void. I watched silently as he forced open the window and straddled the sill, his head swiveling in my direction.

"You take care of yourself, heroine. This city isn't the same place it used to be. I'm a man of the street—_I know_."

Then he was gone, swinging his other leg around and dropping down into the night air. I stood there, speechless and paralyzed for several long seconds. When I finally regained my sense, I padded softly toward the knife—now glinting almost evilly in the moonlight—and picked it up carefully, testing its sharp point and wincing at its piercing touch. Satisfied to have the weapon in my grasp again, I returned to the table and fumbled along its surface until I finally found a box of matches. I rattled it, listening to the few remaining sticks inside before selecting one and striking it sharply. A yellow-orange flame burst to life, providing a warm glow as I transferred it to the candle and watched it spark to life once again.

Snuffing the match, I realized that I still held the envelope, compressed in the same hand that held the wicked knife. I shook my head wearily at the notion that the shadow had opened the letter, read its contents, and sealed it perfectly once he was done. Did he sort through the people's mail often? Was it an amusing hobby for him to partake in? I huffed in dry laughter. Perhaps he did—or perhaps he had been lying. Perhaps he had been spying on me throughout the day and learned about my frustrations. I would rather believe that explanation than the former.

My eyes wandered across the table's surface, ensuring that my belongings still remained—

The knife clattered to the floor.

The necklace—my mother's precious necklace—was _gone_. He _stole_ it. That sly _thief_ took it! How could I be so _blind_?

I ran to the window, my upper body leaning far beyond the sill and my hair whipping mildly in the faint, moaning breeze. "_Thief!_" I hissed, my voice strangely hoarse. Or had the shadow been correct in his suspicions? Was I reluctant to expose him to the city—to the Baron and his men?

There was a loud cough from below me, and I stared down at the cobblestone street. Two guards patrolling the neighborhood on their nightly routine met my flabbergasted gaze, one frowning thoughtfully and the other, holding a glowing torch, smiling rakishly.

"Is everything well, Miss Reynor?" the frowning guardsman asked, his words bouncing off the surrounding brick and stones, causing a horrendous echo.

I cringed, straightening and drawing the majority of my body back through the window. "Quite," I quipped, tucking my loose hairs behind my ears. "I…merely thought I heard something."

"Must've been the screamers," the other man deduced, shrugging and causing his flame to waver dangerously. The frowning one snarled something under his breath, his eyes turning fierce as he scolded his companion. On any other night, I might have laughed at their silent but obvious dispute; however, my amusement was dispersed, for I was still shaken by the shadowy thief's appearance and his recent crime.

"Yes. I suppose so," I muttered, gaining their immediate attention. I waved a hand, bidding them riddance. "Thank you for your concern. Goodnight, gentlemen."

I removed myself from their sight, closed the glass pane, and pulled the curtains together. The guards may have returned the farewells, or they could have offered to search the perimeter of my father's home—but if they did, I had been too hasty to end the conversation to hear their acknowledgments. Turning slowly, I surveyed my quarters carefully in fear of finding any further intruders—or in hopes of discovering my necklace lying on the floor, accidentally knocked off the table when the thief had left with unneeded grandeur. Neither result came from my inspection, both to my relief and my despair.

I returned to the table, bending down and releasing a gust of air through my lips. The flickering flame of the candle blinked out of existence, and the darkness surrounded me greedily. Gingerly, I moved about my quarters, only partially aware of the furniture that adorned the space and occasionally stumbling across these pieces by accident. My bruised knees and aching toes complained about the lack of light to guide my path, but my mind was too preoccupied, rather listening to any noise that disturbed the thick silence that had overtaken my quarters. I knew, subconsciously, that the thief would not enter the house for a second time—at least not this evening—but I was perturbed by the mere fact that he had slipped past the locked barriers that kept this house secure. Had he used a lock pick, perhaps? Did he wriggle a window open? Had Fiona forgotten to lock one of the entries? Unfortunately, I had not asked—not that the shadowy thief would have provided me the answer, anyhow. He spoke riddles, not truths.

Exchanging my garments for a nighttime gown, I folded back the quilts to my bed and laid down on the mattress, knees pulled upward and arms hugging my torso protectively. My eyelids refused to shut, my brain too focused on the curtains that would shift subtly every few moments, causing my muscles to tense uneasily. I should have slipped the knife under the pillow—or replaced it behind the mirror instead of leaving it stranded on the ground. Considering my dazed state of mind, I would cut my bare foot on the blade tomorrow, forgetting its presence on the wooden floorboards. Foolishness. And Federico had trusted me with his precious utensil, simply because he wanted to protect me from a threat in the unseen future. It would seem that the thought was futile, for I could not maintain a good grip upon the hilt, or even hide it in the groove behind the mirror, out of sight from any more intruders.

Anger and disappointment clouded my head. My father was right: I have the courage, but not the appropriate wisdom.

And I accepted that, closing my eyes to the world around me in peaceful slumber.

* * *

Fiona inquired about the knife on the floor when she woke me in the morning, eyes as round as saucers and hands visibly trembling. I had reassured her, explaining that I had used it last night in the place of my missing scissors—a poor excuse, but Fiona accepted it with a sigh of relief. Not a trace of doubt could be detected on her features, to my surprise. Has she always been this gullible? Or was she feigning innocence? I did not know, and I honestly did not care. As long as she did not press me for answers, I was happy.

When the middle-age woman left me to dress, I had scoured my quarters thoroughly in hopes of recovering my beloved necklace. But it was gone—not even the daring flash of its red rubies could be seen, nor the twinkling glare of its silver chain. My sole, true belonging was within the hands of a thief who was undoubtedly boasting to himself about his success and treachery. A disgrace to my mother's memory.

Pain clung to me that day, earning the worry of Horace, the pity of Fiona, and the uproarious compassion of Federico, who demanded to know who 'had trodden upon my soul'—a touching, differing expression of love from each of them that made me smile. I only brushed aside their concerns, however, excusing my terrible attitude and blaming it upon the news that Gregory had given me yesterday. Federico and Fiona accepted the answer unquestionably, the former grumbling about the bald-headed man; but Horace…Horace did not let the matter slip so easily. For a man who trained and raised horses for a living, he was clever, and should certainly not be mistaken for a fool. He knew that I had been disappointed about Gregory's report, but he also knew that that could not be the sole reason that I was saddened. He interrogated me mildly about it throughout the day, careful not to tread too far beyond my limitations yet unafraid to state the problems bluntly. Amazing, I must say. However, I was careful with my words, and I did not let the news of the thief's arrival last night leave my lips. Despite my hatred—is that the feeling I wish to use?—toward the thief, I could not bring myself to expose him. Not yet.

Therefore, three days passed in torturous silence and utter slowness. My days were either spent in my quarters, constantly checking the latch on my window; or down in my father's study, reviewing the contents of the envelope Gregory had given me. The former was mere paranoia; the latter, however, was a source of frustration and helplessness. I wanted—_needed_—to find a solution to daunt Gregory and the Baron's regulations; but, whenever I sat down and examined the words written on the parchment, I found myself lost—out of options. There were no loopholes or weak stanzas that would provide me a legal, grounded argument. Gregory was flawless, unrelenting in details and precise in explanations. Why must he be the only man capable for such a position in the city? Ah, yes: because the Baron could influence him to do his bidding and will. Most unfortunate for the people, including myself.

But then, something changed. Something _remarkable_. Something that had been delivered from the mouth of Horace himself.

On the morning of the fourth day since the thief's appearance, I reclined in the plush, maroon chair that had once been my father's favorite seat. Upon the squat, glass table before me, I had spread the documents for an easier view from my position. A warm fire burned in the hearth, its flames radiating tremendous heat against my seemingly frozen skin while the clock on the mantel ticked rhythmically to the crackle of the brazier.

I was in deep concentration when, suddenly, footsteps pounded down the hall and Horace emerged in the doorway, tawny eyes alight with awe and alarm. I furrowed my brow, staring at him in concern for several long seconds. When the silence became too heavy, I finally asked, "Whatever is the matter, Horace?"

He blinked, clearing his throat. "Sir Gregory Ulundy is requesting your presence. Shall I…let him in?"

I stood, jaw tightening. Gregory? What did he want? His payment for his poor services? He said he would give me a week. "Is he asking for money?" I pressed, eyes narrowing. "If so, then you can tell him—"

"No, Katherine. I have already asked him a similar question, and he denied the claim. He wishes to…_reconsider_ his previous offer."

Reconsider? Was this trickery? I suppose there was only one way to know for sure. "Let him in," I allowed, waving my hand in the general direction of the door to send Horace on his way. He nodded, disappearing down the hall without a single, hesitant step—actually, he seemed more determined than anything. Commanding, defiant. A proud display that I hoped intimidated Gregory.

Minutes passed until, finally, I heard the shuffling gait of booted feet. Gregory's bald scalp gleamed in the light of the fire, his spectacles reflecting the orange flames in a despicable manner. He paused momentarily, a fine eyebrow arching questionably at me. I gestured toward the opposite chair, turning away from him as I took my own seat in the padded maroon chair.

"I dearly hope you do not plan to burn that paperwork," he commented as he took a seat.

I lifted my chin, folding my hands in my lap politely. "I was led to believe that you had an offer for me. Was I wrongly informed?"

"Hardly. I would just _hate_ to see my hard work become a replacement for firewood."

There was a dry humor in his voice, his eyes withholding a conniving light in their depths. I pursed my lips, shifting in the chair to attain a better position to face Gregory. Curiosity and childish excitement flared to life deep within me, adding to the rapidity of my racing heart and the wondrous ideas that flitted across my mind. Was an opportunity at hand? Have the rules finally changed in my favor?

"What do you wish to speak about, Gregory?" I asked, clasped hands tightening painfully in tense anticipation.

"Well, Miss Reynor," he began, his thin fingers lifting a black, leather bag and flipping primly through its contents. Envelopes similar to the one I had been given were stacked one after the other, along with a few loose files with unintelligible writing scribbled across its surface. I watched Gregory's hands eagerly, waiting for his search to come to a halt and produce what he had to show me. I had not realized that I had been holding my breath until Gregory slipped a fresh envelope from the very back of the bag and held it toward me. I had to refrain from snatching the letter from his grasp, gently extending my own hand and claiming the envelope with a grateful nod.

My nails pulled at the lip of the envelope, tearing it free and exposing the four pages inside. I pinched them between my thumb and index finger, pulling them free of their bondage and glancing over the finely printed words and the news they brought me. Sentence after sentence I read, my eyes hungrily absorbing the bold type.

Ten minutes passed until I finally reached the last page. A long, thin line stretched across the bottom, Gregory's signature on the left. I glanced up at the man in question. "These are your final terms?" I asked, the papers trembling in accordance to my own body's uncontrollable quiver.

Gregory smiled his infamous, sly grin. "Yes, Miss Reynor. These are my terms."

I stood, turning on my heel and strode toward the door. Horace was just beyond the wooden frame, tawny eyes attentive and rather worried. I smiled comfortingly, proffering a hand and beckoning: "Horace, would you please retrieve me a quill and a bottle of ink?"

His eyes widened, but he did not hesitate to fetch the items I so desired. Accepting quill and ink from his calloused hands, I murmured a silent 'thank you' and retreated back to the maroon chair. The stack of papers were set upon the glass table's surface while I unstopped the ink and dipped the point of the quill into the black substance. In tall, looping letters, I scrawled my name on the opposite side of Gregory's signature, careful to ensure the clarity of the spelling and cursive writing.

Gregory clapped his hands together once the deed was done. "Excellent! I am proud to say, Miss Reynor: your father's last will has been done. What once was his, now is yours to keep."

"And I will be sure to pay handsomely for your compliance, Gregory. I only ask for a few days' time."

"Ah, no need. Your dues are paid to the fullest. Good day, ma'am." He dipped his hairless head and departed, the thump of his polished shoes marking his stride and the slam of the door signaling his exit.

I blinked, dumbfounded by Gregory's response. My dues were paid? When had this check been written? Certainly not by my hand.

Horace shuffled into the room, his gaze sweeping across the space suspiciously. He eyed me cautiously. "Well? What deal has been made?"

I stared stupidly at him for a moment; then, an elated grin parted my lips. My heels clicked on the wooden floors as I approached him, took his hands in mine, and revealed joyously, "It seems you will have your horses sooner than I once thought. When this Gloom finally passes, I will be sure to purchase whatever breed your heart desires."

It took several moments for realization to dawn in his brain; but, when it did, he gave me the happiest expression I have ever seen upon his face. "Oh, thank the Lord," he praised, tugging me into a hug. I was surprised by his actions; however, I did not protest whatsoever. These last few weeks of despair had suddenly become jolly again. No one in this family had to suffer or worry any further, as long as I could prevent it.

Still, I must wonder: who paid for this blessing?

* * *

That night, all was silent. No screaming, no laughing, no cursing, no whistles, no quarrels, no coughing—it was oddly peaceful, leaving a suspicious sensation lingering in the air. I could not judge whether I enjoyed the quietness or if I despised the lack of noise. I felt…more paranoid, actually; for, without the usual din that kept me distracted, I could detect every little shift, shuffle, and scurry. Ludicrously enough, I once believed that someone had been scuttling across my roof, and I had peeked through the window's murky glass in a vain attempt to find the culprit—a culprit that did not exist.

After that incident, I had attempted to convince myself to lay down and rest—to ease my frantic mind of its wild imaginations—but the mere notion made me recoil. Why I was so stubborn to sleep was a mystery to me, despite how idiotic that response sounded. Perhaps I was still delighted over the accomplishment that I had made today, along with the sheer joy that had been etched into the faces of Horace, Fiona, and Federico—the latter celebrating with a fine bottle of wine that he had been keeping for a special occasion. Yes, that must be the reason behind my refusal to sleep. The excitement that clung to my nerves still kept me awake and alert. Yes…

Smiling faintly, I lowered my gaze for a brief second from the mirror before me, staring at the table and fiddling with a splinter protruding from the wood. I glanced over at the empty spot that once held my mother's necklace, a forlorn feeling washing over me in a mournful wave. I may have my father's belongings and artifacts, rightfully assigned to my name; but the only fragment from my mother was gone, resting in the hands of the thief.

I shook my head at the remembrance of that terrifying night, encountering the shadow that had played games with me—like a cat toying with a trapped mouse. Oh, how I _hate_ that comparison—how I _hate_ that thief. If only I could see his masked face one more time, I would memorize it faithfully and describe him to the Baron's Watch. The streets would be so heavily defended that he would not be able to gain one more piece of stolen treasure. And his nest, wherever it may be? Picked and sorted through, especially by my own hands so that I may reacquire the necklace.

Defiant now, I raised my head to glare into the mirror—except, there was shadowy figure looming behind me, mismatched eyes meeting my gaze expectantly. I gasped. But, before I could utter another sound or twitch a single muscle, he said: "Don't scream."

My throat constricted in automatic compliance. A minute passed without movement or spoken words—only glares and amused stares filtered between us, communicating our respective, hidden emotions about the situation.

Finally, the thief shifted, raising both of arms and bringing his hands forward. My breath hitched, but I said nothing as his knuckles brushed against my collarbone and drew carefully across my shoulders and behind my neck. The soft click of a latch locking into place reached my ears, and the thief backed away from me, the ghostly trails of his fingertips leaving a tingling feeling arching through my skin. However, I brushed that sensation aside once I spotted the silver string hanging from my neck, catching the flame of the candle perfectly and reflecting an orange tinge. I was baffled by the sight of the simple necklace now gracing my collarbone, adding subtle splendor to the blouse I wore. Was this supposed to be an apology for the necklace he had s_tolen_ from me? If so, why would he feel inclined to do so? And why would he not return my true property instead of this piece of precious metal that he has probably taken from another?

Then recognition struck me, like a harsh slap across the cheek. This _was_ my mother's necklace—or, at least, the silver chain that had formerly held the carefully cut rubies.

I whirled around, caught between fury and disbelief. My mouth opened and closed several times, but nothing managed to leave my lips other than a few undiscernible stutters.

The thief's mask crinkled, signaling a smirk or a smile. "Speechless? What happened to your sharp tongue?" he inquired innocently.

My eyes narrowed to slits. "You have ruined it," I said bitterly, fingers curling around the edge of the table behind me. "You had no right to take it from me, nor to strip it of its rubies and leave me with the skeleton."

He sauntered to the side, circling around to stand at the end of the table, a mere foot from my position. His mismatched gaze never left me, although they switched between my hard glare and the silver chain shining softly in the light. "What's yours is mine," he countered, his thumb brushing across the edge of the table and following its length until his hand hit the wall. "I gave you fair warning."

"You gave me _no_ warning!" I snapped, limbs shaking. Anger and frustration and sadness washed over me like a massive tidal wave, weighing me down and summoning an inward panic and indecisiveness. How could I argue sense into this thief who was stubbornly bent on his ideals? How could I obtain the rubies that once adorned this chain wrapped around my neck? How could I win? My options were limited and my reasoning was beaten down by his twisted responses. What was I to do?

I faced the mirror again, my gaze darting to the crevice behind the frame that held the kitchen knife. I considered drawing the weapon, but logic dictated that motion unwise. How would crippling this thief help me? What if I killed him out of rage and spite? I would gain nothing but a death sentence from the Baron's most trusted executioner if I committed the latter, and Horace, Fiona, and Federico would be left in an ungoverned house with absolutely nothing. I did not want that happen whatsoever—for all of our sakes.

But, truly: who am I fooling? This shadowy thief has disarmed me of the knife before, and he knew of its placement in the room. He would puncture my hand with an arrow before I could even touch the hilt of the knife.

I turned away from the crevice and looked toward the thief again. He gave no hints away, his well-hidden features neutral. Undoubtedly, he knew of the dilemma I had found myself in. He was probably proud of his grand advantage over me.

I sighed, dipping my head. The silver chain shifted against my collarbone, as if demanding my attention; therefore, I stared at myself in the mirror, studying the fine piece of jewelry, despite its lack of gems. Absently, I wondered what trials this necklace had underwent, and what cities and countries it had reflected in its beautiful surface. Supposedly, it had traded hands, down the family line of succession since my great-grandmother first obtained it—or, so my mother had told me when she bestowed the treasure to me before she departed for her fatal, overseas trip. I had believed every word—and I still do—but the simplicity the thief had given it seemed to reduce its grandeur. I saw nothing but failure, now, for I had let the gems slip between my fingers—let them sink to unknown depths in this sickened city. How could I have done that to my mother? To my grandmother and my great-grandmother?

"Those rubies held meaning. _Memories_ beyond my lifetime," I murmured, shoulders drooping significantly. "Why would you claim that as your own?"

His fidgeting fingers paused momentarily in their playful adventures across the wooden table and the perfumes shoved to their respective corner. The cowl that covered the thief's head wrinkled slightly, the cloth brushing against his unseen hair—that is, if he retained any of the substance upon his scalp. "You seemed more concerned with the letter I held in my hand—not the necklace that lay within my reach," he explained. However, his statement only served to baffle me.

I swiveled my head in his direction, eyebrows scrunched. "I…do not understand."

The humor that usually captured his eyes—_eye_—dwindled, becoming strangely solemn. "You could have snatched the necklace away. I wouldn't have stopped you. And obviously, you weren't afraid to take something from me, for you ripped that letter from my hand without much hesitance," he said, crossing his arms and adjusting his stance to lean his hip against the table. "In short: when the option between the necklace and the letter was presented to you, you chose the latter."

"You _offered_ the letter to me. Common sense would urge any man to accept what is offered to him," I refuted, lips pursing.

He shrugged a shoulder. "Perhaps. But most men keep their most prized possessions closest to them. And you? You held onto that letter like it was a lifeline." He snorted quietly. "Besides, you had yet to burn it. If you despised its contents as much as you let on, you would have fed it to the flames."

My fists clenched briefly as I prepared myself to argue that point; however, the words died in my throat before I could utter a sound. I forced the memories of my last encounter with the thief to resurface, replaying the events that had unfolded and carefully placing each action and emotion in proper order. Of course, when the thief had so boldly stood before the necklace and set his grimy hands on either side of the piece of jewelry, I had been concerned for the heirloom; yet, when the letter had been presented to me, I had snatched it away and held it close. My thoughts never wondered back to that necklace—not until its absence had been noted much later. I had considered myself a fool, for I had not bothered to check the table's surface after the candle had been snuffed. I simply held that letter, like it was the irreplaceable prize and not the necklace.

And why had I not burned the papers that were tucked inside the envelope? The action would have been so easy. I could have watched the source of my current sorrow and pain burn to ashes—destroy Gregory's dedicated, useless work. But I refrained. I kept it. Why?

An arm reached across the table, the hand attached to it pinching the flame of the candle and inviting the darkness to enter my quarters. My heart raced as I searched blindly to find the thief moving amongst the shadows. "Wait! I must ask you one more thing," I pleaded, spinning around in a complete circle to find the living shadow that blended with its unanimated brethren. Fortunately, my quest was cut short as the curtains were pulled away from the window, outlining the thief.

He did not turn to me, focusing solely on the widow as he asked, "And that would be what?"

I sidled forward a few steps, unsure about my next query. But this thief may be lost to me after this night, and my answers may never come from another mouth other than his. I could not let this opportunity slip.

"If I may be so bold…what did you do with those rubies?" I said quietly, arms instinctively hugging my torso. The silver chain shifted again at the movement, delicate and cool on my skin.

The window creaked open, the glass rattling as the thief slid it upward. A gust of air gave life to the curtains, puffing them up in crimson billows. For a moment, I was convinced that the thief's cowl would also be disturbed by the wind and remove itself from its owner's head; however, it did the opposite, the leather clinging to his skull stubbornly.

"Didn't feel right stealing from a dead man and a woman who had nothing to lose," he admitted, twisting his upper body to glance my way. I found it hard to meet the misty blue eye that seemed both blind and soul-piercing. "So, when I deduced what was more important to you, I used the rubies as bribery. The Baron's men may be stiff-necked, but they will not turn away from profitable riches—or, in this case, precious gems."

"You…you convinced Gregory to submit to my father's last testament?" I murmured, disbelief coating my words, like a tangible substance. I shook my head numbly. "Why would you do that? After what said to you? After I threatened you?"

"A good deed is rare in this city, especially with the spreading Gloom," he said, stepping up to the window sill and swinging a leg over the edge. He mirrored his position from the first time he departed my quarters, casting an amused glance my way—amused, but genuine in a very strange sense. "Besides: in reality, you paid for your rights. _You_ fulfilled his will. I'm just the one who took action. So give yourself a pat on the back, heroine."

The starless night engulfed him as he fell way from the sill, cloak fluttering in farewell.

I stood in my darkened quarters for several minutes, caught among pride, gratefulness, and utter astonishment. Then, reaching up to my neck, I grasped the silver chain, rubbing the metal between my fingers. The rubies were no longer within my possession, sitting comfortably in the hands of Gregory. Yet, that did not bother me as much as I suspected. Rather, I smiled a broad grin, a soft, breathless laugh leaving my lips.

Theft was not a commendable act; however, this thief has done right by me—even if only this once. And I will never breathe a word about the incident either, for his sake.

His deeds and crimes are safe.

My lips are sealed.


End file.
