Page 36 of The Hood and his Thief

Rhosyn shrugged. “It’s not like I’d be allowed to do much else around here, and you know how hard it is for me to sit still. Besides, it’s not as if I can really do much harm with a needle and thread.”

Several hours later, it turned out Rhosyn had been very wrong. She could do serious damage with the most ladylike of instruments, although mostly to her own fingers. It seemed that years of calluses on her knuckles still didn’t protect her from pricking her fingers and nearly bleeding all over Archer’s Circus’s wonderful wardrobe.

She managed to gouge the needle into her finger savagely and grimaced, using the motion to sneak a glance at where Little John still sat, watching over her. She ducked her head to hide a smile, seeing that a comrade had joined him. They bent together in conversation, John only glancing over at her every thirty seconds or so to make sure she hadn’t gotten up to any mischief.

Contessa would be proud, she thought. After all, her friend had been the first one to lament how easily an embroidering lady blended in to the background, making it the perfect cover for eavesdropping—a strategy Contessa had never been able to employ because she couldn’t put two stitches together without ripping out her shiny blonde hair.

Despite Rhosyn’s personal lack of skill, the strategy did seem to have merit.

“You’re stabbing it too hard.” Olivia glanced over her shoulder. “It’s muslin, it doesn’t fight back you know.”

“Old habits die hard,” Rhosyn grumbled, staring at the plain shirt in her hand. She had been relegated to fixing ripped undergarments, where her sloppy work could be hidden under costumes. “Never mind that though. It’s nice of you to help Ansel.”

“We like to earn our keep if we can,” Paul said.

“I was hoping to get through all of these, but I don’t think we will be able to get it done by the end of the week,” Olivia huffed in disappointment.

“The end of the week?” Rhosyn prodded, glancing up at John and finding him engaged in conversation still. She surreptitiously scooted around the table under the pretext of having more room to straighten out the garment in her grasp, trying to get into earshot.

“We’ll be leaving for the country on Sunday,” Olivia explained. “Originally, we were supposed to leave town with the circus on the train at the end of their visit, but given…current circumstances…Ansel found a way to smuggle us out with a contact earlier. He told us first thing this morning.”

That drew Rhosyn’s focus back to Olivia, her straining ears pausing in their efforts to overhear John and his companion. “Sunday. That’s five days from now.”

Olivia nodded before her eyes widened, seeming to understand what she’d just conveyed. Rhosyn only had to cooperate with Ansel and the Foxes for five days…and she only had five more days to gather all the information necessary to take them down, once Olivia and Paul were safe from the threat of being returned to the Gower’s service.

Olivia opened her mouth as if to say something, but Rhosyn cut her off.

“I’m sure you’ll be happy to start a new life in the country.” Rhosyn kept her voice as casual as possible, trying to convince Olivia and Paul not to worry about what happened once they were out of the way.

“I am! We’re planning on going to Sussex where…”

Olivia’s words faded into the background of Rhosyn’s thoughts as she described how she was looking forward to living somewhere where the air wasn’t always heavy with factory smoke and she might have room to start a small garden.

Rhosyn also tried not to dwell on her plans for escape in five days time either. Instead, she let her senses of the room broaden as Olivia and Paul planned excitedly for the future. More Foxes had entered the safehouse as the day wore on, and conversations grew in volume as they seemed to forget Rhosyn was there.

“… Worthingtons should be the next mark.”

A snippet from the table at which Little John sat grabbed her attention. She cocked her head but kept her eyes down on the needle and thread in her lap.

“His investment in the mines made out well recently. He doesn’t need all that wealth,” John grumbled.

“And if we do hit the Gowers again, we’ll need the cash.”

Rhosyn frowned at her stitches, and not just because she had managed to stab herself hard enough to get a drop of blood on her project. Her concern was twofold—not only were the Foxes planning another robbery, but they were planning to hit the Gowers house again. Try as she might, she couldn’t puzzle out why they might risk returning to terrorize the same family again and again, even if they did overwork their servants.

“Ansel went to—”

A loud cheering from the far side of the room cut off Little John’s companion. Rhosyn suppressed an internal groan as she looked up towards the source of the commotion.

Standing on the table was a young woman, about the same age Rhosyn had been when she left the Lions, grinning as she juggled a no fewer than seven shining objects. Rhosyn’s eyes widened as she focused her gaze enough to recognize the objects as glass beer mugs. The juggler didn’t seem concerned, barely looking at the flying mugs as her fingers scarcely touched the twirling handles before spinning the glasses into the air once more.

The volume of the crowd crescendoed as a spectator tossed another glass into the fray. The juggler’s grin only widened as she caught it without hesitation, seaming it into her rhythm without faltering.

“Ey, knock it off, Tory,” Little John shouted without menace. “I know you won’t break anything, but it’s not kind to our host’s nerves.”

Indeed, the barkeep grabbed the counter he stood behind with white knuckles, eyes wide with nervous incredulity. He had likely expected brawls when he let a gang overrun his bar—probably for a healthy cut of their scores—but very little could prepare him or Rhosyn for the sights of Archer’s Circus.

The juggler stopped her rhythmic tosses, instead catching the glasses one by one and stacking them neatly in her hands. She shot a sheepish glance at the bartender and hopped down off the table as the crowd dispersed.