Inva stared up at the honey locust, past the trunk, past the thorns, to the nest near the night-dark treetop.
There was no better opportunity than the birth of another dynasty brat. It had to be now, while the moon hung high in the sky and the sounds of drunken celebration in the city rang out beyond the walled grove. The guards would come back soon with their wineskins fat and bellies full.
It was Inva’s name-day today too, her twelfth, but no one would care about a street urchin on her name day or any other.
Now.
Cautiously her gloved hands slid over the first rung of thorns and paused. Taking a deep breath she tested the strength of the spikes jutting out of the trunk. Strong enough to hold her, despite their nail-thin tips.
Up she went.
The longest and sharpest thorns scraped against her pilfered heavy leather tunic, but it couldn’t stop them all. Even with her cautious gropes, with every movement she could feel the press of the thorns like knives with each near-graze.
The first thorn slid through the soft flesh of her ankle, right between the cuff of her hide breeches and her worn-in soles.
I will not cry out. I will not.
She dangled over a handhold, forcing down a gasp of pain.
No time to waste, not even for this.
She could almost hear Silversmile urge her forward, “up ye go, girl, quick as ye can. Don’t bother to come back without it, child.”
Tears sprang to her eyes unwilled, both for her setback and herself. For Johann Silversmile, the prize would always be worth more than her life, or anyone else’s.
The lower spike slid back out of her skin with the most agonizing patience she could muster. Warm blood flooded into the sole of her shoe, making a squelch with each torturous foothold as she continued upward.
All of this, for the hen and her golden eggs. And Silversmile’s coffers.
There was no going back. The prize glinted in the moonlight, growing closer even while her strength flagged. Thorn by thorn, rung by rung, the little thief hauled herself up, gritting back gasps with every stab of the honey locust.
At last Inva perched next to the gilded cage, blood dripping from her soles and down the treacherous trunk. She reached forward eagerly to the latch.
But it was already loose.
The hen was gone. The nest was empty. Nary a feather lingered from the royal brood hen or her glittering eggs. Someone had taken one and all, the cage door swung wide open. The golden prison was all that remained to show for the riches Silversmile had so greedily sent her to fetch.
Inva crumpled, her limbs tender and throbbing at each wound.
There was no going back.
The moonlight was waning, and so were the sounds of the city.
Only the little thief stayed, perched in the treetops on her twelfth name-day, weeping.