Page 81 of A Thief Among Fae

“And don’t touch anything,” Brandur adds in a low warning.

“Not even with magic?” I levitate his bootlace and wiggle it, eliciting a teeth-baring growl. “Never mind.”

“There may be some booby traps you can help us disarm,” Finnian says. “Funny word, that. Booby traps.”

Maeve makes a face at Finnian, who responds with an impish wink.

Brandur clears his throat, and they straighten. “I’ll use gestures to signal when it’s alright to enter a room.” He models a few for me.

“Got it. Follow your lead. Don’t touch anything.” I don’t know why Desmond was so worried. This really is no different than a tomb raid.

“Before you go, you should have these.” Maeve digs into her pack and hands each of us a glass sphere that fits in my palm. A torrent of smoke curls inside it. “Smash it, and it’ll give you cover for an escape.” She holds her fist to her chest and nods. “Good luck.”

She remains in the shadows as the rest of us dart toward a metal trapdoor in the manor’s stone wall. “Emergency exit, in case of burglaries or kidnappers,” Finnian whispers.

Brandur grins. “Very ironic. Now try to open it, Cyn.”

There’s no handle. I wiggle two fingers into a tiny gap between the trapdoor and the mortar, then pull. No give. It’s locked from the inside. I step back and shake my head.

Finnian pulls a vial of oil from his pouch and coats the hinges. With a brief wince, he sheds his gloves. I stifle a gasp. Scars gnarl his fingers, raised and angry. He flashes me a forced smile. Then he grips the gap and hisses, grimacing as he pulls. The trapdoor lifts. And Finnian’s fingers are raw and red.

Iron. His Gift is unlocking, perfect for any thief, but most locks, doorknobs, and hinges are iron, which is caustic to fae. I can’t imagine how much pain using his Gift has put him in.

Brandur holds the trapdoor so Finnian can slip his gloves back on. Then Finnian slides feet-first into the dark room. He lands atop a barrel, climbs down, and motions for me to follow.

My heart pounds as I follow. The barrel wobbles under my unsteady feet, but I hold it still with my magic. Finnian holds my hand to soften my landing as I jump down.

Stacked barrels surround us, and the air is stuffy. They’re labeled with years stretching back decades, enough wine for a village festival. Light leaks from the narrow staircase leading upstairs.

Brandur follows and closes the trapdoor behind him.

A rat sprints out of the shadows, followed by an overweight cat in a hurried pursuit. The cat eyes us, its low belly wobbling, then chases after the rodent.

That accounts for two animals. Brandur points to the ceiling and raises one finger. One humanoid is moving. He holds up four fingers to count those not moving. Then one finger for a roaming animal upstairs. He hesitates, tracking movement I can’t see, then motions for Finnian to lead us upstairs.

Finnian tests each board and proceeds without a creak. When he turns the doorknob, the door doesn’t budge. He ungloves, trying again with a wince. The lock clicks.

Before he can push the door open, a low bark raises the hairs on my neck. Footsteps creak through the house.

“Hide!” Brandur warns us. “The housecarl is coming.” He pulls me down the steps at a pace that has me stumbling, but the barking hides every creak.

“Fang?” a woman hisses upstairs. “What’s got you bothered? Why is the door unlocked?”

The door swings wide open, light spilling down. We’re already in the shadows of the barrels, and hold our breaths as the cat leaps past us. It ambles into the light with the rat limp in its jaws. Clawed paws scrape against the floor upstairs, and the housecarl grunts. “Stop it,” she hisses. “It’s just the cat!” She must be holding the dog back.

The door slams shut and locks. I count the seconds as the housecarl’s footsteps fade away. My pulse thunders. We creep back to the door, but this time, I’m aware of how much danger we’re in. The only reason that guard dog didn’t tear us to shreds was luck.

At least this time, there’s no one watching as we sneak into the hallway.

Oil lamps illuminate parquet flooring and blue walls. I’ve never seen painted walls in a home before. Embroidered curtains are drawn over the windows to keep out the night chill, and the wind whistles against the panes.

We follow the hallway to a dining area. A massive wrought iron chandelier hangs from the arched ceiling, and high-backed chairs are stationed around a polished table. It’s adorned with silver place settings. Behind it, a cabinet stores even more.

My hand twitches. Mom would love to dispose of our cracked wooden utensils. She buys a new set from the village carpenter every three years, but she’d never need to replace silver. This family has multiple sets, the extras arranged like nothing more than decorative knick-knacks inside the cabinet. I’d need to sell everything I’ve ever raided from tombs to afford even one. It would be too easy to slip a set into my pack, but my stomach turns at the thought. I’m not a thief.

And yet you’re here, I think with a wince.

Brandur and Finnian proceed past the dining area to the study, and I agreed to stick with them. An agreement I’m starting to regret, surrounded by all this opulence.