It was not a good night for thieving.

Kildare huddled on the edge of the roof, feet braced against the gutter. Cold water trickled past his heels, soaking his dragonsbane-fiber foot-wraps. He kept one arm hooked around the leg of the griffin statue he sat next to as he leaned over the roof, watching the flickering, dancing lantern light reflect off the rain-slicked walls and cobbles of the courtyard below.

Would Mockingbird and Fir make it in the gate? Would Fir’s forgery job for the invitation hold up to scrutiny?

This was the part of the job he hated—waiting to make sure his team was in place.

“Seen ‘em yet?” Snitch shifted uncomfortably from where he was curled up under the griffin’s wing, one of the few dry spots left on the slate roof.

Kildare leaned out a little more, straining to see the carriages pulling up to the grand steps of the keep. It looked like most people had arrived by now—there were about a dozen carriages parked to the side of the stables, and four more waiting in line to get their fancily-dressed passengers as close to the doors as possible before disgorging them.

He moved his foot, trying to find a more comfortable balance, and suddenly skidded a little closer to the edge. Kildare’s heart leapt to his throat. Before he could stop himself, wings burst from his shoulders and the backs of his arms. His fingernails lengthened into claws, scraping along the roof. Half in wyvern form, he flung himself back on the roof, heels digging harder against the gutter, and laid very, very still.

Even if the guards were night-blinded by the lanterns strung over the courtyard, movement as sudden as wings could draw attention. Kildare blinked against the rain pelting his face, slowly calming his heart rate until he could shift fully back into human form. After some minutes had passed and there were no shouts of alarm, he slowly sat up. He scanned the walls, hoping he hadn’t missed warning cries in the drumming of the rain against the slate roof tiles, but all the guards seemed to be in their places, huddled under waterproofed cloaks at the corners of the keep’s walls.

“You all right?” Snitch hissed.

Kildare glanced over at him. Snitch had half-crawled from his spot under the griffin statue, eyes wide.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

Snitch nodded and brushed his lank hair out of his face, settling back into place underneath the griffin.

Kildare sighed, settled himself again and folded his elbows on his knees, watching. All this for some statue. He took a deep breath, so deep it made his lungs ache. But for a good cause.

Two more carriages slogged from the muddy road into the courtyard, their wheels leaving tracks of sludge that were quickly washed away. The first carriage, painted a green so dark that it looked almost black in the lantern light, was the familiar one. The one he’d been waiting for.

Kildare tracked it to the foot of the steps, where it paused. The carriage door popped open, and two familiar figures in brilliant forest-green and summer-gold clothing dashed up the steps and for the front door. The driver—hired for the night, of course—pulled toward the stables.

Kildare reached over and tapped Snitch on the shoulder.

Light flickered off metal as Snitch’s knives disappeared into the folds of his cloak. “We’re on?”

Kildare grinned. “We’re on.”

Hunching low, they scrabbled their way over the peak of the roof, sliding down the other side. Bracing one foot against the gutter again, Kildare slowly rose to a crouch. One more glance at the guards on the wall. Their backs were still turned. He leaned over the edge of the roof. Torches—not the fancy, scrollwork lanterns—lit the back of the keep, casting dim circles of light around the back door and down shallow steps into what Kildare guessed was the keep garden. 

“A few feet to the left, and we’ll be over a window.” He straightened. “Ready for this?”

Snitch shook his head. “I’m never ready for this,” he muttered.

“Oh, come on. In five years, I’ve never dropped you.” Kildare grinned. “Unless it’s been part of the plan.” 

Snitch didn’t move. And for a split second, Kildare wondered…did Snitch really still not trust him?

“I won’t drop you,” Kildare said reassuringly.

Snitch crept forward, grasping Kildare’s outstretched hand. “I keep telling you, you keep speaking in absolutes during a job, you’re gonna jinx us.”

It was an old joke—it had been an old thieves’ joke before anyone on the team had ever been born—but it eased the flutter of anxiety souring Kildare’s gut. They couldn’t afford the missteps those feelings could give them. 

Using Kildare as an anchor, Snitch climbed over the gutter and began feeling his way down to the third-story window. Kildare squeezed his fingers tight around his friend’s wrist, and mentally prepared himself to shift if Snitch slipped from his grasp.

“Got it,” Snitch hissed. 

Kildare let go, then swung himself over the gutter. He looked down. Directly underneath his feet, two guards stood by sputtering torches on either side of the door, cloaks huddled around their forms. Water dribbled along the gutters, splattering on the pavement and masking the sound of his movement.

Snitch clung to the side of the building, a slim blade slipped between the wooden shutters over the window. He jiggled the blade back and forth, thin face scrunched in concentration. With a tiny click, the bar on the interior of the shutters gave way, and Snitch leaned back, swinging them out and back against the stone wall. He stuck the blade under the leaded-glass widow and began working it upward. 

Kildare swung himself to the window and squinted, trying to see inside. No lanterns or candles lit the interior of the room, and all he could see were vague shadows. 

The window popped open, the hinges creaking. With a silent flurry of movement, Snitch was inside the room. By the time Kildare hauled himself over the sill, Snitch was at the side of the bed closest to the window, knife in hand, the blankets thrown aside to make sure no one was hiding under them. 

No one was. Snitch bent and looked under the bed, then glanced at Kildare and nodded. All clear. 

Kildare pulled the shutters and window shut, wincing at the gentle creak of the metal hinges. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of cloth as Snitch began searching through and under the other beds. He walked to the room’s only door and eased it open a crack, peering out into the corridor. Lanterns hung from hooks on the wall, creating pools of light and shadow that would make it easy to sneak through. Besides, all the servants were probably on the main floor, serving and cooking and preparing guest rooms for the partiers who would inevitably be too drunk to make the rattling, swaying drive home in their carriages.

He slipped out into the hallway, hugging the wall, and began creeping forward. Snitch slid after him. Carefully, they worked their way through the halls of the servants’ quarters to the stairs. The steps creaked underfoot as Kildare crept down them. Snitch hunched, trying to make himself as small as possible. Kildare sympathized with him—they both preferred skulking through the shadows. Walking down the stairs, with no place to hide if someone opened the door at the bottom of the staircase, felt wrong.

When they opened the door to the second floor, Kildare could hear the sounds of the party filtering through the hallway. He paused, consulting his mental image of the map he’d spent the last few days memorizing. They were at the back of the building, and the hallway outside the door led to the second-floor gallery. And at the front of the keep, a few steps up from the gallery and above the guard rooms, was Lord Datheil’s display room. The statue they were looking for was probably there.

They snuck through the short hallway and paused at the open doorway leading into the gallery. From what they’d been told, two guards always stood on watch at the far end of the gallery in front of the display room. The carved wooden panels that served as the gallery railing hid them from the guards’ view, but until Mockingbird and Fir’s show, they wouldn’t be able to get past the guards either.

At least, Kildare hoped that the show would provide them cover. If all went well, the guards would take a few steps forward to look over the gallery railing once the show started. After all, it wasn’t really abandoning their posts. But if the guards didn’t fall for it, things were going to get a lot messier than he’d planned.Kildare crept up to the paneling, using some of the decorative holes in the wood to peer down into the banquet hall below. The room was a riot of color and sound as music bounced off the wooden paneled walls and ceiling. Massive, stained glass windows arched nearly two stories tall, and between the three windows on each side of the room hung elaborate tapestries with tassels nearly a foot long, each depicting a scene from mythology.

Kildare studied the closest one tapestry, a depiction of Jakan Roliwyn breaking the mountains of Lerem. Wavy lines shot through with gold thread emanated from the figure’s upraised hand. Representing whatever type of ley Jakan had supposedly been able to manipulate, Kildare figured.

“Look at that,” Snitch muttered beside him. “The tassels on that banner are probably two feet long. How long do you think that it takes a servant to untangle them?”

“No idea, and I don’t envy them,” Kildare said quietly. The opulence around him was flashy, and pretty, yes, but the Do’orite tile mosaic alone probably cost hundreds of goldmarks. He clenched one fist. Half of that sum, and they could easily clean up the slums around the town. 

“See them yet?” Snitch asked, breaking Kildare’s mind from his mental tallying.

Kildare glanced down at the banquet hall again. As he scanned the room, searching for Mockingbird or Fir, a flicker of red hair caught the corner of his eye. Kildare focused on it, heart leaping to his throat.

The woman was too young to be Serene.

He breathed out a sigh and resumed searching. There were several Alfaren in attendance, but most had tamed their bristly, moss-like hair into the tall curls and slicked-back tails of Ermenian fashion. Fir had given up days ago trying to style his hair, but at least Mockingbird had removed the prayer beads and random charms she usually wore—though Kildare was pretty sure he’d seen her slip a few charm bracelets into the sleeves of her flowing gown before he’d left. 

“It’s got to be close to time for their act,” Kildare said. He looked away from the banquet hall and around the gallery. They were too exposed here—if someone walked out of the servants’ quarters behind them, there was no cover. He glanced at Snitch. “See any place to hide?”

Snitch motioned for him to follow, and they crept along the wall until they got to a corner. Snitch crouched, studying the long, open gallery for a moment, then motioned at a shorter tapestry hanging on the gallery wall. “You hide there. It’s over an alcove, I can tell by the way it hangs. So just hug the back wall—the shadows should hide your feet.” He pointed to a suit of armor set beside one of the roof support pillars that jutted through the gallery wall. “I’ll squeeze in there and keep an eye on things, let you know when Lord and Lady Thorne make an appearance.” He grinned.

Kildare nodded and slipped across the dark wooden floor, careful of popped nails and loose boards, and slid under the tapestry. He stood upright. Sure enough, there was a shallow little alcove back here, maybe once used to display a statue, but it was empty now, except for a few dust-white cobwebs he could just make out with the cracks of light coming around the tapestry’s edges. Kildare pressed to one side of the alcove and leaned forward, squinting out from one of the sides. He couldn’t quite see Snitch, just the edge of the suit of armor. He pushed the tapestry aside a hair and glanced toward the front of the building. Now that he was standing, he could see across the low gallery wall to the arched doorway of the display room. Two guards stood on either side of the arch, both armed with crossbows and swords. He grimaced. Even his wyvern form wouldn’t be much protection against crossbow bolts.

With Snitch in place, watching for Mock and Fir’s signal, all they could do was wait. Kildare crouched and leaned his back against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and took a long, slow breath in, then let it out. He could wait.