I hardly sleep that night in anticipation of our planned felony. I’m up beastly early, though we don’t leave until midafternoon, when Helena goes out to pay calls and we can slip away undetected.
We walk for nearly an hour in the oppressive heat, our clothes suctioned to us with sweat before we’ve left the yard. Dante leads the way, through the Barri Gòtic and down the tree-lined mall that saws the city in half. As the church bells announce the half hour, we reach a square, lined in market stalls selling produce wilting in the heat, grains to be scooped from barrels, and boxes of autumn-colored spices. Along one edge, sows with their stomachs split are hung from hooks by their feet. The butchers’ boys run beneath them with buckets to catch the innards, their fronts smeared with blood. Beggars kneel between the paths, their hands cupped before them and their faces pressed into the dust. The light is giddy and loud, and the air crowded with flies. Everything reeks of mud and fruit too long in the sun.
Dante stops in the shade of a Roman tower abutting the square and points to two men strolling the stalls with swords dangling at their sides, their gazes far too predatory for them to be casual shoppers. “There. Thief-takers. They’ll be quick.” Dante wipes his sweating hands upon his breeches, then looks over his shoulder at me. “Father looks quite a lot like Helena. Dark haired and slim.”
“You told me,” I reply.
“And he’s only three fingers on his left hand.”
“I know.”
“Are you . . . still certain you want to do this?”
“Of course.” It’s strange to be reassuring him when it’s me doing the deed, but in that moment, I am feeling damn heroic. “What’s the worst that could happen? They’re not going to cut off my hands for theft, are they?”
“No,” Dante says, with just a bit too much of a pause. A tremor of nerves cracks through that damned heroism.
“We’ll give you an hour,” Felicity says. “Then we’ll come.”
“And you’re certain they’ll let me out without my standing before a court?”
“The jailers aren’t compensated,” Dante replies. “They’ll—they’ll take a bribe.” He reaches into his pocket—the same artificial gesture he’s been repeating every few seconds, as if to check that his money hasn’t disintegrated.
“And you’re certain they’ll take me to the same place as your father?” I ask.
“It’s hard to . . . yes?” Dante twists his hands before him. “They’ll take you close by and it’s—it’s the nearest to here.”
“And if he isn’t there, you’ll know soon enough,” Felicity interrupts. “Now, if you don’t move quick, those men are going to be occupied by an actual crime. Get along, Monty.”
Stoic Felicity is nearly as irritating as anxious Dante. I look to Percy, hoping he’ll offer a comfortable middle ground of confident concern, but his face is unreadable as he watches the thief-takers prowl the square. One of them stops to nudge the tin cup of a beggar with his toe.
“Well. I’ll see you all on the other side.” I tug on the edges of my coat, then start toward the nearest market stall.
“Wait.” Percy’s hand closes around my wrist, and when I turn back, his face is very serious. Felicity makes a rather obnoxious show of looking away from us. “Please be careful.”
“I’m always careful, my darling.”
“No, Monty, I mean it. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I’ll try my best.”
Percy leans in suddenly, and I think he’s going to tell me something in confidence, but instead he touches his lips to my cheek, so light and fast I doubt it happened as soon as he steps back.
“Go on,” Felicity hisses at me. “They’re moving.”
Percy nods me forward, his hand falling from around my wrist, and as much as I’d rather cling to him and demand he kiss my cheek again so I can turn my head and he’ll meet my mouth instead, I trot over to the stall at the end of the row. The lad manning it looks a few years younger than me, with spots and a bit of puppy fat clinging to his cheeks. He seems thoroughly occupied with throwing rocks at the pigeons picking at the dirt, but he glances up when I approach. I give him a smile.
And then begin loading my pockets with potatoes.
It is a bizarre sort of inverse thievery, as the primary goal of a thief is to avoid detection and I’m putting rather a lot of effort into the opposite. But that mutton-headed shop boy’s entire being is held in rapture by those damnable pigeons—he hasn’t so much as looked up by the time my pockets are heavy with fingerlings, each the size of my thumb and all a livid purple. I let a few fall to the ground for maximum effect, but even that doesn’t commandeer his attention.
I’m getting short on room for more—going to have to start dropping them down my trousers soon—so I make a dramatic decision and kick over the entire crate. It upends with a crash, and finally, finally, the daftie looks up. I grab a last handful of potatoes for good measure and bolt.
“Stop him! Thief!” I hear him shout as I sprint away, directly to where the two thief-takers are standing. I pretend to spot then, try to spin around and get away, but one of them hooks me around the neck and jerks me back. The collar of my shirt nearly tears off in his hands.
The shop boy catches us up, his face bright red and his hands in fists. “He stole my potatoes!”
The thief-taker that hasn’t got his arm around my neck grabs the hem of my coat and turns the pockets inside out with two good shakes. The potatoes fall to the ground in a gentle violet rain.
The swain yanks at my collar again, nearly lifting me off my feet. “What have you to say for yourself, prig?”
I fold my hands in dramatic penance and adopt my best waifish eyes. “Sorry, sir, I couldn’t help it. It’s just, they’re such a pretty color.”
“My master will have him locked up!” the shop boy shrieks. “If you don’t take him, I’ll fetch my master. He’s tossed cutpurses in prison himself before—he’ll do it again, he knows the bailiff!”
“Oh, no, please, sir, not the bailiff!” I cry in a mocking tone. Anything to rile them—I’m rather concerned they’re going to let me go with nothing but a wrist slap, and then what will have been the point of this? “Your master must be a very important man to know the bailiff.”
“Keep quiet,” the second gent growls at me. He’s still collecting potatoes from the pavement.
“He’s taunting me!” the shop boy cries. He’s nearly stamping his feet in rage.
“Come to that conclusion all by your lonesome, did you?” I say with a wide smile. The boy throws one of the potatoes at me. It sails straight over my head and knocks the thief-taker holding me in the ear. His grip loosens, and I start to wriggle away, like I might be trying to escape, but his fellow snags me before I can get far, sacrificing his armful of potatoes to grab me by the front of my coat. I give him a wink. “Easy, darling, we’ve only just met.”
He cracks me before I even realize he’s raised his hand, a backhand that catches me under the jaw so hard I nearly lose my footing. My own hand flies up and clamps over the spot, same as where Percy put his lips to my skin just minutes ago.