Page 9 of Icarus

He crept gently up the back stairs to the smaller library and did his job. One urn removed, one urn replaced, he fled back down and out the door, his heart racing like a coward.

Strike

The sculpture delivery went off without a hitch, but photography was a daytime activity. So, on Thursday, the second day of the heist, Icarus got called out of school.

He was supposed to take pictures of some of the empty bedrooms. But he followed the jangling of his nerves and went down into the dark storage instead to take pictures of the pieces that were too fragile or not grand enough to display.

Hopefully his father would be so excited to see this untouched work that he’d let the disobedience go.

The painting delivery haunted him though. It was not optional and definitely located in one of the most commonly used areas of the mansion. The delivery was on the worst day as well: the day of Mr. Black’s return home.

Anything could happen. Mr. Black could come in eight hours early, he could arrive hours late, there could be delays, or he could arrive a whole day later. Then there was the whole thing about the house maybe not being empty. Icarus hadn’t heard anything during his first visit but the air felt so heavy in there, there was a hum like more electricity was being used. Something. He couldn’t just shrug it off, it itched at him.

Uncertainty felt like death at his back.

Title

Icarus clattered around the house like a grain of rice at the bottom of an empty tin, picking things up and putting them down. Tidying objects he would never normally tidy.

Angus sat at the kitchen table eating hard dark bread and sweet cream butter. He had a book in one hand. Every so often he would look up to watch Icarus.

“You have half an hour. Do you have everything you need?” he asked softly.

Icarus startled, then composed himself, putting down a small figurine he was dusting.

“Yeah. I think so. This one is in the second master bedroom. I haven’t been in that room since the images were taken.” It was the closest he could come to admitting that he was nervous.

Icarus’s father chewed for a bit.

“If anything happens . . . I’ll come for you. I won’t . . . let you fall,” he said, his gaze returning to his book.

Icarus stopped fidgeting. It was the first time his father had ever offered that to Icarus in his entire life.

“Dad . . .” Icarus said softly.

Angus nodded. “Don’t forget to be careful,” he said unnecessarily.

“I won’t.”

Gong

Icarus slid into the window on the second floor. The back door wasn’t a viable option so close to Mr. Black’s return.

This wing of the mansion was blue. Blue carpet, blue walls, silver sconces every ten feet or so, all unlit. There was a guest bathroom, big and white with gold fixtures, a small study packed tightly with old children’s books, a playroom filled with unused junk toys, and finally: a large bedroom meant for a child.

Icarus and his father never spoke about Mr. Black’s personal life. But it wasn’t inconceivable to imagine that he’d had kids at some point. There had never been anyone else in this house the entire time Icarus had been coming here. He was twelve when he started; now he was almost eighteen.

Icarus pressed himself against the wall and paused, listening hard. He could hear the trees blowing in the wind outside, the ticking of a clock in one of the rooms, the light buzz of electricity in the walls, but nothing else.

Icarus darted across the mezzanine and into the hallway. He paused, holding his breath, to calm his heart.

Huff

This room was ornate, designed by Mr. Black’s ex-wife. On one side there was a large, four-poster bed with drapes all the way to the floor. Stacks of books spilled out onto the ground. There was a record player that looked dusty and unused, and a giant wardrobe with clothing sticking out every which way.

All of it dusty and untouched, like someone years ago had left in a very big hurry.

It was currently too dark to see the other half of the room, but the place where Icarus needed to be was easy to find.