Page 16 of The Hood and his Thief

Rhosyn’s eyes narrowed. “Did your train have any trouble upon arriving?”

“No,” Mr. Blakely—Ansel—cocked his head. “Other than the ungodly early hour it arrived this morning.”

Rhosyn considered him. Her mental hackles rose at the thought that he might be lying. His train had arrived at the spot of a dangerous turf war just hours after it occurred. What’s more, he had been at the last two events that had ended in thefts or kidnapping. Then again, so had she.

Ansel observed her as she thought, expression guileless.

“I guess it’s for the best that yesterday’s festivities ended early then, if you had to be up before the sun,” Rhosyn commented.

Ansel shrugged. “Despite the fact that I lost our bet, I found myself disappointed that I didn’t get to show off my skills for you. After all, your slight of hand was very good, and I don’t like to be upstaged.”

A fire in Rhosyn’s chest sparked at his accusation—despite the fact that she had cheated—but settled into the heat of a challenge, instead of rage, when he saw that his expression was more amused than angry.

“Only a sore loser confuses luck for cheating,” she quipped.

“Oh, I’m no stranger to luck,” Ansel answered cryptically, “but I do have a knack for remembering what cards have been played. I’m pretty sure you played the Queen of Hearts twice.”

“Well, there’s no proof of that.”

Ansel’s eyes flashed, green catching in the sun like the emerald at the center of Mr. Gower’s stolen hat pin. “Then I guess I still owe you a demonstration.”

“Technically, you only have to tell me about your circus act.”

“And deny a performer a chance for dramatic effect?” Ansel asked. It struck Rhosyn as an odd comment somehow, in the broad daylight where he seemed to be just another man working to unload a train of its cargo, in plainclothes with a smudge of something like grease along his jaw. Last night, in all his finery, he had certainly seemed the consummate showman, but now it seemed as if he was missing something. It left Rhosyn unbalanced, wondering which man was the real one—the suave Mr. Blakely she played cards with last night, or Ansel who she bantered with in a trainyard.

“Maybe we can still find time for you to show off,” Rhosyn suggested.

“My circus will be performing its opening show next weekend. Why don’t you come and see for yourself. Front row seats are hard to come by, but I know the owner,” Ansel joked.

“Now you’re just cashing in your side of the bet.”

“I have very little incentive to play fair against you.” He grinned, expression sly.

Rhosyn’s rational mind told her to refuse his offer—steer clear of a social climber who likely wouldn’t take kindly to her background. After all, she had a thief to catch, the Foxes to bring down, and missing Talented to find.

But Ansel wore his smile like a challenge, and Rhosyn never backed down.

“I expect tickets on opening night.”

“So it shall be.” Ansel opened his mouth as if to say something more, but his gaze caught on something over her shoulder. “Careful with the trapezes! You’ll get them all tangled doing that.”

In a second, he strode away, commanding the workers who were loading bundles of ropes into a wheelbarrow. Rhosyn stood watching for a moment in the middle of the mayhem, a rock in the center of a hive of worker bees. Then she turned from the Archer’s Circus train and began weaving her way through the much bleaker and less lively engines.

She wasn’t sure what she expected to find. The gangs of the lower city were skilled at hit and run tactics, striking each other swiftly and melting back into the shadows before the authorities arrived. Such guerrilla tactics were how the Lions had thrived for nearly a decade.

It was doubtful the Foxes left any more evidence around than boot prints in gravel, already worn away by the stomping of the rail workers this morning. Maybe the trains themselves would give her a clue as to what they might be smuggling that was worth spilling blood over.

A quick perusal of the manifest in the small office at the side of the rail office showed nothing of note, besides the arrival of the Archer’s Circus train, which she already knew about. The only things coming in and out yesterday and today were steel and coal, as well as a large shipment of textiles. The last would be very valuable—prices had been driven up enormously since Contessa advised the King to enact a policy demanding fair wages for the factory workers—but not something any gang would try to steal.

Rhosyn left the rail yard behind her with lead in her usually bouncy gate. Perhaps Chief Thorne’s faith in her was misplaced, thinking she could protect the lower city from whatever trouble was brewing.

A comforting weight like a blanket settled over Rhosyn’s shoulders as she opened the sky-blue front door of the Woodrow’s house. The only thing that would make it feel more like coming home would be climbing up from the secret passage beneath Nate’s desk in the study. However, it had been filled with stones and boarded up after the Royal Police were alerted to the secret passageways’ presence a few years ago. Nate was unwilling to give those that might want revenge such easy access to his home—and his wife—now that the secret of tunnels was no longer owned only by the Lions.

Still, Rhosyn was no more inclined to knock on the front door than she was when entering through a trap door, and she strode into the foyer and past the sweeping staircase casually. Nate and Contessa wouldn’t mind. After all, two of their most frequent visitors were Kristoff and Scarlett, who Rhosyn knew through experience preferred windows to doors.

Rhosyn meandered through the parlor, listening for signs that the Woodrows were home. It looked much the same as it had since Nate first moved into the mansion, elegant but plain furniture and nondescript still-life paintings adorning the walls. The most prominent sign of life was the overflowing vases on every surface, immaculate flowers kept blooming by Gregor’s presence. As much as Rhosyn had hoped the place would be more lively after Contessa moved in, she had proved disinterested in decorating, most of her time spent either helping the King or working with the Lions on projects of more questionable legality.

Still, certain details spoke of the home’s inhabitants. An ornate marble chessboard sat prominently on the table in the middle of the room, a birthday present for Contessa that Nate had agonized over several years back. Dozens of books, a mix of poetry, fairy tales, and politics, lay stacked on the surfaces not occupied by flowers. On top of one of the teetering piles, a silvery blade gleamed, apparently unable to have been packed onto Nate’s relatively well armed form.