A soft click, and the window fell open. Apara released her grip on the trellis and slipped inside. Boots crunched on gravel two storeys below. The soft murmur of bored conversation drifted up the mansion front and faded to nothing as she set the window to. A twitch of the drapes restored the illusion of normality.

Apara pocketed her lock picks and glanced around. If the lady’s information was correct, this part of the house was unoccupied, its master away. Still, no reason to be sloppy. There were servants to consider. Hirelings took all manner of liberties when their paymaster’s eyes were elsewhere. And it wasn’t as if the house were entirely empty. Lights still shone in the main building and the eastern wing. Only here, in the west, did darkness reign.

She eased her way across the carpet, alert for creaking floorboards. She’d been at this since she’d been strong enough to climb a drainpipe. Since the lady had first bestowed her patronage.

Still a child, Apara hadn’t questioned why she’d been chosen. She’d just been glad to be free of Dregmeet’s slums, and at the prospect of regular meals. She’d always wanted a family, and the lady had given her a larger family than she’d even imagined. Hundreds of cousins, scattered across the Republic and beyond, bound by something stronger than blood.

Thirty years and more, and never once been caught. It had made her a legend among her cousins. The Silver Owl, they named her, for labours beneath sunless skies. But her once thrilling profession had become rote, even tedious. There were no real challenges. Not any longer. Part of her longed to get caught, just for the spice it would bring.

Apara shook the thought away. Now of all nights was no time to get sloppy. Not with two forbidden texts strapped to her back. Thieves got service in the clink or slaved for the navy. Witches got the pyre.

Her left eye twitching and her heart leaping at every tiny sound, Apara pressed on.

They must not easily be found without a determined search. By which Apara understood that the owner of the chambers should not discover the books, and nor should the cleaning staff or another burglar like herself. To find the books, the searcher would have to know that there was something illicit to be uncovered, and examine the chambers accordingly.

The books were a vial of poison, waiting to be broken into some poor bastard’s breakfast.

Apara passed up the low bookcase. For all the joy of concealing a tree inside a forest, this particular copse was too threadbare. The top of the wardrobe and the underside of the bed were equally worthless. No aspiring heretic would stow such texts in so obvious a place. But the hearth? The hearth was perfect.