Page 47 of The Hood and his Thief

“I’ve always been what people needed. For years, the young Lions needed a big sister. Then, London needed protectors it could trust.”

And now, I’m not so sure what is needed.

The last part echoed unspoken in her mind.

They reached the end of the corridor they were in, a tiny space opening up where both she and Ansel could crowd behind the hidden door at the rear of the servants’ quarters. In the small opening, they stood so close that Rhosyn’s chest brushed Ansel’s as she breathed. It was still too dark to see, but the space stirred around her as they inhaled the same air. It was both painfully intimate, and blissfully anonymous, being this close but not being able to see him after what she had just admitted.

She thought Ansel might drop the subject, but instead he asked, “So who does that make you, if you’ve only ever tried to be what everybody else needed? Are you a gangster or a police officer?”

Rhosyn tried to swallow, but her throat stuck. “I could ask you the same thing.” Her voice was hoarse but loud in the blackness. “Are you Mr. Blakely or the Hood?”

“I have a feeling we might answer that question the same.”

Neither.

“Neither.” Ansel echoed her answer, although she hadn’t said it out loud.

Rhosyn’s heart stuttered, pain lancing through her chest at knowing her enemy and captor was the one who had been able to so succinctly cut to the core of her psyche.

“Don’t we have a palace to rob?” she asked, voice scratchier than she would ever like to admit.

“Of course. Heists are hardly the best time for philosophical debates about one’s identity.”

And like that, Ansel diffused the tension with just one quip. Air that had been sucked out of Rhosyn’s lungs rushed back in as she breathed in relief. Teasing banter sat much more comfortably with her.

Turning away, Rhosyn put her ear to the wooden panel that served as a hidden door. The movement gave her a few moments of separation from Ansel, and her mind was able to latch onto the task at hand once more. It was the middle of the night, but the servants that lived in this outbuilding would work at all hours to keep the palace running smoothly.

Greeted only by silence, Rhosyn inched the door open, thanking the powers for quiet hinges. Perhaps Nate kept them oiled, just as he kept this passage open and secret.

They stepped out into a quiet corridor. It, too, was dark, but the blackness was less thick than it had been in the passage. From one end of the hallway came the dim silver light of the moon, seeping in around a doorframe.

Rhosyn gestured towards the exit and led the way on soft feet. In a matter of moments, they emerged into the soft evening air of the palace grounds. The main building towered in the distance, a fortress of stone that would not be easily penetrated. As they crept through the shadows, towards the high stone walls, she frowned at it.

Guards would be stationed at all the doors, as well as rounding the gardens at regular intervals. She would have to shimmy open the lock of one of the windows quickly. Unfortunately, the palace would not have the cheap locks that were easily persuaded to give way with correctly applied leverage. It would be a challenge to break it quickly enough to avoid notice. At least once they were inside the offices, Rhosyn wouldn’t have to worry about the patrols of the ground interrupting her work on the safe.

They reached the shadow of the walls and Rhosyn crept towards the nearest window, keeping to the side in case somebody was up working late. She bent to the lock and cursed quietly under her breath.

Ansel leaned over his shoulder, close enough that his heat seeped through his clothes onto his breath tickled her neck. “What’s wrong?”

“This is going to take a while to finesse. Breaking it would make too much noise.” Rhosyn explained, pulling the lock picks from her boot.

Ansel huffed. “We don’t have a while. Guards round every five minutes.”

Her stomach turned to stone. Who knew how long it had already been? “Then I better get started.”

Ansel rested a hand on her forearm, halting her. “Look.”

Rhosyn tracked where he pointed with her gaze. Several floors up was a window, swung wide open as if in invitation. She shook her head. The palace walls would not be rough hewn with uneven mortar—not easily climbed.

“I can get you up,” Ansel assured.

Before she could ask how, Ansel darted away across the lawn to a blossoming tree. Rhosyn hissed, suppressing the urge to shout at him for being stupid and drawing attention. He started up the tree, and frustrated as she was, Rhosyn’s eyebrows shot up at the speed with which he reached the upper branches.

The tree was well pruned by the castle gardeners, leaving no low hanging boughs for him to use as handholds, but Ansel didn’t seem to need them. He scurried upwards with the swiftness of a squirrel that spent all its life among the trees.

As he reached the branches level with the open window, he stepped onto one. Rhosyn’s mouth opened, but she kept herself from shouting. Still, her heart froze in her chest as he picked his way along the branch. It was too thin and too far from the open window. He couldn’t possibly make it.

But Ansel didn’t seem to be informed about the laws of gravity. He ran along the branch as if it were a tightrope, not even attempting to use his hands to balance himself on adjacent limbs. As the branch got thinner, he only gained speed. Just as the branch began to dip dangerously under his weight, he leaped.