.5.

THE RULES OF THIEVING

“The first rule of thieving,” Quicksilver whispered the next morning, “is to always be aware of your body. That way you don’t trip—say, over your own boots—and ruin a job.” She cleared her throat. “If you know what I mean.”

“Right. Be aware. Body. Got it.”

Quicksilver watched witheringly as Sly Boots struggled to adjust the long striped scarf about his neck with one hand while clinging to the church rooftop with the other. “Was it really necessary for you to wear that?” she asked.

“Was it necessary to climb onto the roof? It’s cold up here!”

“The second rule of thieving is to survey the area from as high a point as possible, so nothing takes you by surprise.”

Sly Boots looked down at the ground and then quickly up, breathing fast. “We’re going to fall and smash our heads open.”

“We won’t if you listen to me instead of panicking. I’ve done this loads of times, trust me. Now come on.”

Quicksilver climbed farther up the shingled roof, her makeshift witch’s cloak flapping in the wind. Sly Boots had loaned her a pair of his own boots; they were too big for her, brown and clunky, but she still scaled the roof with ease.

Sly Boots followed her much more slowly, muttering over and over, “Don’t look down. Don’t look down.”

At the top of the roof, Quicksilver lay flat and hooked her elbows over the peak. From here, she could see the entire town square. She could see what the people of Willow-on-the-River put into their market baskets—bolts of cloth, wrapped parcels of fish, sacks of apples and potatoes, stoppered bottles of all sizes, bunches of garlic cloves, sprigs of rosemary, wool blankets tied with twine, charms made of beads and colored glass, and carved wooden figurines.

And, Quicksilver observed, some of the figurines were wolves—painted black, gray, red, blue, brown, gold, and white. One wolf for each of the seven Star Lands. Seven wolves for the Wolf King.

Quicksilver pressed her cheek to the slanted roof, which was warm from the midmorning sun, and gazed north. Past the farmlands and rolling hills of her own kingdom, Lalunet, was the kingdom of Valteya. And past the cold mountains of Valteya was the even colder and more mountainous Far North. And there, somewhere, was the Black Castle, where the Wolf King lived. Many had traveled there, but none had returned. The Scrolls said the Wolf King was beautiful, and splendid, in that way that only kings can be. The sisters had explained that those explorers who braved the Far North in search of the Wolf King’s castle never returned because they had found him, and been overcome with love for him, and agreed to stay and serve him in his great hunt.

Quicksilver had always believed this, as had every other child at the convent—and every other child in the Star Lands, she reckoned.

But now, looking north, where the barest shadowy hints of the Valteyan mountains reached toward the clouds, Quicksilver could think only of Mother Petra’s terrified face.

She thought, as she had many times, about her parents—no doubt traveling at the Wolf King’s side, helping him hunt, offering him counsel. By serving the Wolf King, they were helping many, and by returning to Quicksilver, they would be helping only one small girl.

But if that horrible man at the convent had been the Wolf King, and he was somehow not what she had been taught—if he did indeed go about attacking orphans and old women—then such a person did not deserve her parents’ help.

Her cheek pressed hard against the roof, Quicksilver whispered to the wind, “Come back. Leave him, and come back to me.”

Below, in the square, a familiar bark alerted Quicksilver to Fox. He was circling a market stall from which floated the mouthwatering scent of cooking meat.

“Are we going to do this or not?” Sly Boots hissed beside her. He clutched the shingles, his feet slipping and sliding to find purchase.

Quicksilver blinked. “Of course we are. Stop moving around so much. You’re distracting me.”

“Are you crying?” Sly Boots scooted closer, his eyes wide. “What is it? Are we going to fall? Are we stuck? I knew it. We’re stuck.” He pushed himself up and opened his mouth to scream. “Help!”

Quicksilver tugged him back down. “The third rule of thieving is you never, ever ask for help from non-thieves. You die before giving yourself away.”

“That’s ridiculous! I don’t want to die!”

“Look—I never need help, from anyone, so if you do as I say, you won’t either, and then you won’t have to worry about dying. Simple as that.” Quicksilver took a deep breath and turned away from the north, even though it was hard to do, for thoughts of her parents lingered.

“Now, in that stall over there,” she said, “is a woman selling some really excellent-smelling chicken—”

Sly Boots scrambled up to see, his scarf catching on the roof. “What about medicine for my parents? I see Reko’s cart, right over there. They need a tonic for their fever.”

“Food first. Medicine later.” Quicksilver gritted her teeth. “You said Reko’s on the lookout for you, so we’ll work up to him. Now—”

Anastazia.

Quicksilver froze. “Did you hear that?”

Sly Boots looked around frantically. “Hear what? What is it? Did someone see us? Oh, stars, we’re going to die. The magistrate will arrest us, and then we’ll die.”

“No, it was—”

Anastazia.

It was impossible. Quicksilver was hearing things. There was a voice on the wind, a woman’s voice, and it was saying her name, and that was impossible.

Anastazia.

Not her thieving name. Not Pig. Not Witch. Not Girl.

Anastazia. Her real name, which only her parents knew.

Quicksilver’s head buzzed with sudden fear and hope.

She crawled across the roof, ignoring Sly Boots’s cries, and climbed up the church belfry until she reached one of the high arched windows. From there she gazed north again, and this time she saw a figure on the village’s northernmost bridge. The figure wore a dark cloak, and even from this distance, she could see that the figure was gazing up at the belfry, right where Quicksilver stood.