Mince listened for a long time before deciding the house was empty. He crossed the cellar, climbed the steps, and tried the door to the house. It opened. Careful and quiet as a mouse, he crept out. A board creaked when he put his weight on it. He froze in terror but nothing happened.
He was alone in the kitchen. Food was everywhere: bread, pickles, eggs, cheese, smoked meats, and honey. Mince sampled each one as he passed. He had eaten bread before, but this was soft and creamy compared to the three-day-old biscuits he was used to. The pickles were spicy, the cheese was a delight, and the meat, despite being tough from curing, was a delicacy he rarely knew. He also found a small barrel of beer that was the best he had ever had. Mince found himself light-headed and stuffed as he left the kitchen with a slice of pie in one hand, a wedge of cheese in the other, and a stringy strip of meat in his pocket.
The inside of the house was more impressive than the exterior. Sculptured plaster, carved wood, finely woven tapestries, and silk curtains lined the walls. A fire burned in the main room. Logs softly crackled, their warmth spreading throughout the lower floor. Crystal glasses sat inside cherry cabinets, fat candles and statuettes rested on tables, and books filled the shelves. Mince had never held a book before. He finished the pie, stuffed the cheese in his other pocket, and then pulled one down. The book was thick and heavier than he had expected. He tried to open it, but it slipped through his greasy fingers and struck the floor with a heavy thud that echoed through the house. He froze, held his breath, and waited for footsteps or a shout.
Silence.
Picking up the book, he felt the raised leather spine and marveled at the gold letters on the cover. He imagined the words revealed some powerful magic—a secret that could make men rich or grant eternal life. Setting the book back on the shelf with a bit of sadness, Mince moved toward the stairs.
He climbed to the second story, where there were several bedrooms. The largest had an adjoining study with a desk and more books. On the desk were parchments, more mysterious words—more secrets. He picked up one of the pages, turned it sideways and then upside down, as if a different orientation might force the letters to reveal their mysteries. He grew frustrated. Dropping the page back on the desk, he started to leave when a light caught his attention.
A strange glow came from within the wardrobe. He stared at it for a long time before venturing to open the door. Vests, tunics, and cloaks filled the cabinet. Pushed to the rear was a robe—a robe that shimmered with its own light. Mesmerized, Mince risked a hesitant touch. The material was unlike anything he had felt before—smoother than a polished stone and softer than a down feather. The moment he touched the fabric, the garment instantly changed from dark, shimmering silver to an alluring purple and glowed the brightest where his fingers contacted it.
Mince glanced nervously around the room. He was still alone. On an impulse, he pulled the robe out. The hem brushed the floor and he immediately draped it over his arm. Letting the robe touch the ground did not seem right. He started to put it on and had one arm in the sleeve when he stopped. The robe felt cold, and it turned a dark blue, almost black. When he pulled his arm out, the beautiful purple glow returned.
Mince reminded himself he was not there to steal.
On principle, he was not against thieving. He stole all the time. He picked pockets, grabbed-and-ran from markets, and even looted drunks. But he had never robbed a house—certainly not a Heath Street house. Thieving from nobles was dangerous, and the authorities were the least of his worries. If the thieves’ guild found out, their punishment would be worse than anything the magistrate would come up with. No one would raise a stink over a starving boy taking food, but the robe was a different matter. With all the books and writing in the house, it was obvious the owner was a wizard or warlock of some sort.
It was too risky.
What would I do with it, anyway?
While it would put old Brand the Bold’s tunic to shame, he could never put it on. The robe was too big for him to wear and Mince would not dare cut it. Even if he managed it, the robe would draw every eye in the city. He reached out to put it back in the wardrobe, deciding he could not risk taking it. Once more the robe went dark. Still holding it, he pulled his arm out, and it glowed again. Puzzled but still determined, Mince hung it back up. The moment he let go, the robe fell to the floor. He tried again and it fell once more.
“All right, go ahead and stay there,” he said, and started to turn away.
The robe instantly flared to a brilliant white. All shadows in the room vanished and Mince staggered backward, squinting to see.
“Okay, okay. Stop it. Stop it!” he shouted, and the light dimmed to blue again.
Mince did not move. He stood staring at the robe as it lay on the floor. The light was throbbing—growing bright and dim almost as if it were breathing. He watched it for several minutes, trying to figure it out.
Slowly, he stepped closer and picked it up. “Ya want me to take you?”
The robe glowed the pretty purple color.
“Can I wear you?”