Kester Grant - The Court of Miracles

I somehow manage to slip past blurs of noise—for even at this hour, there’s the clamoring of guards, carriages, and servants—and scale the wall that will lead me to the west wing.

My fingers are bleeding by the time I get to the right balcony and drag my body over the rail, collapsing in a heap.

It takes me a few minutes to look around. There’s a large shuttered door. But Father showed me how to pick a lock before I could even walk. I reach into my trouser pockets and find the pins that Azelma placed there for me. Thanking her silently, I pull them out and get to work. Father taught me well. The door opens in seconds, gliding outward, leaving me staring into a massive room cloaked in darkness. Roaring fear pulses at my throat, driving me ever forward. I take a step and let my eyes adjust.

Inside that room is a boy …

He is at the far end of the room, asleep in a mountain of a bed.

I ignore all the ornaments, the fine furniture, the baubles shining eerily in the moonlight that gently filters into the room. The curtains around the bed are not drawn. I wonder why a boy like this would want to look out into the darkness at all.

Breath catching in my throat, I pad toward him, movements fluid, forcing the panic down. I wonder who he is. Surely he’s a noble of importance, his room being the size of Father’s whole inn.

Around his neck is something you must take …

A collared nightshirt betrays an inch of pale skin. But I see nothing around his neck.

Although Father sends me up walls and down chimneys to grab whatever he instructs, I have never stolen anything from someone who was actually present for the theft. The rule is always to hide until they are gone. But that is not the rule tonight.

I rub my hands together to warm them and lean over the boy. He has long eyelashes and dark wavy hair. He looks peaceful, and by the sliver of moonlight I imagine that he is quite handsome, like a boy from one of Azelma’s stories.

I lower gentle fingers to his shirt—it’s best to move neither too slowly nor too quickly. I keep to the shirt fabric, trying to avoid his skin. There it is! A chain, long and heavy, which is why it wasn’t high about his neck. The length and weight also mean it’s loose, easy to tease out. The end of the necklace slips from under the covers, and I pause for a mere second as it glimmers in the moonlight. It’s the largest stone I’ve ever seen, a sapphire set in a gold casing thick with smaller pearls and jewels. It sits heavily against his chest. He will surely wake if I lift it, or if not then, when I try to get it over his head.

You’re small and you’re quick, and those, too, are weapons.

I count to three and then I move. As smooth as water, the necklace is whipped off, and there’s only a whisper of a second when the metal chain brushes his skin. When he opens his eyes, he’s looking right into mine.

You’re clever, Nina, and that is a weapon.

If he shouts for help, he will rob me of important seconds I need to escape. I might make it to the balcony, but not beyond.

This is the art of thieving … Femi’s words echo in my ears. Deaf are the distracted, and blind are the surprised. Those mesmerized by a face do not notice where the hands may creep.

I need to distract him, keep him surprised—or at least, more surprised than he currently is. His mouth opens, so I do the first thing that comes into my head: I kiss him, pressing my lips to his in a style that I’ve seen played out too many times in dark corners of Father’s inn. He tastes like chocolate. And that’s the last thought in my mind as I push away from him and start to run, leaping for the balcony.

I’m over the edge, into the freezing night, my lips still burning. I hear a strangled sound as I drop and roll onto the balcony, then start to scale the wall down to the ground.

“Wait! Please!”

I should not look up, but I do, fingers raw and wind at my back. He’s staring down at me from two floors above. He’s going to call the guards; he’s going to demand I give the necklace back; he’s going to have me arrested, and I will have failed Femi and Azelma.

“Who are you?” he asks.

I pause for only a second before I smile at him. “The Black Cat,” I say. Then I let go and drop like a shadow into the night.

Femi and I travel over rooftops in the dark, high above the noise of heaving, sleepless streets, far from the city center, over warrenous rookeries and pitch-black alleys. Femi nearly flies, moving with fearlessness and grace. Every now and again he whistles, each time a different sound, as clear as the bells of Notre-Dame. I think I hear the echo of an answer on the wind, but I can’t be sure it’s not my tumultuous mind playing tricks on me.

“Keep up, little cat!” Femi calls, his voice soft, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Don’t think, don’t hesitate, just leap when I leap.”

Every step I take is filled with terror: I never know if my foot will land solidly or if I’ll fall behind. Father taught me how to scale buildings but never how to soar, leaping like a bird from rooftop to rooftop. With every leap, I think of my sister and my stomach turns inside out.

When we pause so I can catch my breath, Femi whispers to me in urgent tones the reason for our mission, words I am to repeat, gestures I am to make. The jumble of things I must remember is terrifying. Panic rises, choking me, but I think of Azelma and bite my lip, forcing myself to concentrate. Then we are off again. And in the darkness, I repeat Femi’s words to myself over and over till I know them by heart. I will do whatever I must to get back to Azelma.

Finally, he stops, and I nearly whimper in relief, overcome by the journey, my ears ringing with the instructions he has given me. In the silvery dawn, I see that we are on the outskirts of an abandoned neighborhood, its buildings ravaged by time. We scramble down the side of a crumbling edifice, push past a half-open gate, dwarfed by the shadow of a ruined church. A pair of heavy doors awaits, our arrival upsetting a murder of crows nesting in the roof. Inside, what hasn’t decayed has long since been scavenged: the benches, altars, and stained-glass windows are dark open wounds along the crumbling walls.

“L’église de l’évêque Myriel,” Femi says, his low voice echoing into the ruin. “They say it’s haunted by the ghost of its founder, a man violently converted from a life of nefarious crime.” He reaches out to me, drawing me into the darkness after him.

“And there are others who say that l’évêque Myriel never gave up his criminal ways. Becoming a ‘man of God’ was the perfect cover for his illustrious career.”

Femi gently pulls me toward a small side door that must once have led to a vestry. We enter and step through another decomposing room and down a dark staircase. He slows a little for me, pointing out which stones are likely to shift beneath our feet. At the bottom of the staircase in the meager half-light is a monster of a door, darker even than the darkness of this lightless place. Femi places a hand on it, and I follow. It is cold beneath my touch. Iron, which does not rot, or burn, or fade …

The giant door swings open before us. A blaze of light blinds me.

“Welcome to the Guild of Thieves,” Femi murmurs.