Chapter 95: Robbing the Gentry
I was certain of it. The water was the same—the same foul, stinking liquid, with the same inky, hair-like black tendrils swirling within it. The wet marks on the abandoned bedding were identical to the ones we had just seen outside our own hovel. The dream, the drowned things, my own frantic coughing up of that black water… if Jared hadn't woken me, would I have been next? Would I have simply… disappeared?
“What wet marks?” Jared asked, then his eyes widened in sudden, dawning horror. “You mean… like the ones from yesterday morning? When you said their beds were wet?” He started to walk towards the spot where the other men had vanished.
“Don’t bother,” I said, my voice flat. “They’re long gone. The marks are dry.” I had already checked when we returned from the bookshop. The bedding itself had been scavenged, no doubt, by the other slum-dwellers. In this world, even the deathbed of a vanished man was a valuable commodity.
We returned to our hovel, but the sense of safety was gone. The walls felt thin, the darkness outside menacing.
“When I was a lad,” Jared whispered, his voice tight with a fear I had never heard in him before, “I heard the old ones talk of drowners. The spirits of the drowned. They said they drag children into the river. I always thought it was just a story, to keep us from playing by the water.”
“We have to leave this place,” I said, my own voice a low, urgent whisper. “We can’t stay by the river anymore. We have the money now. We can rent a proper room.”
Jared hesitated. I could see the conflict in his eyes. He had worked so hard for this small, wretched piece of territory, had paid for it with his own cunning and courage. To give it up after only a few days… But the fear of the things in the water was a powerful motivator. He finally nodded, his face grim. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll… I’ll look for a room to let tomorrow.”
Though we were both terrified, exhaustion was a more immediate tyrant. Parula’s frail body couldn’t take much more. Soon, my eyelids grew heavy, and I drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep. This time, there were no nightmares. I slept until the morning sun pierced the gloom of our hovel. Jared was still fast asleep beside me, a faint, dark smudge of exhaustion under his eyes. He had clearly not slept well.
“Are you alright?” I asked when he finally stirred. “You should rest today.”
“No, I’m fine,” he said, shaking his head, trying to force a brightness into his voice that he didn't feel. “We have to go get those jewelry for you today.” I felt a pang of guilt. But the summoning… it was the key. The key to power, to survival. It couldn't wait.
And so we set out, leaving the familiar squalor of the slums behind and heading towards a part of the city I had only seen on the map. Jared knew the general direction, but with the map, I knew the name: the St. Lawrence district, Clara Street.
It was another world. The muddy tracks of the slums gave way to neat, red-brick pavements, lined with elegant, classical-style gas lamps. The houses here were not the cramped, leaning tenements of the poor, but grand, two- or even three-story villas, each with its own manicured garden and wrought-iron fence. I could see gardeners in neat, black vests and maidservants in starched, white aprons tending to the grounds. The people here were a different breed. The gentlemen wore fine, dark suits, and the ladies strolled in brightly colored dresses, some with daringly low-cut backs that revealed a shocking expanse of pale, smooth skin. This was where the city’s rich and powerful of Cando lived, a world of unimaginable luxury that existed only a few miles, and a thousand lifetimes, away from our own. The contrast was so stark, so jarring, that it felt unreal, as if I had stepped into another dream. The streets were lined with bright, clean shops, their glass windows displaying a dazzling array of goods. Children in sailor suits pointed at sweets in a confectioner’s window; gentlemen sat at small tables outside a café, sipping coffee under wide parasols; ladies in fine hats browsed for jewels in a glittering storefront. A carriage, pulled by two magnificent white horses, rolled leisurely down the street.
And yet, we did not stand out as much as I had feared. For all their wealth, the gentry still required an army of servants to maintain their comfortable lives. The streets were filled with delivery boys, maids on errands, and labourers making repairs. Dressed in our simple, homespun cloaks, we blended in perfectly with the other young, working-class children who scurried through this world of wealth like mice in a king’s pantry. And of course, it was a good thing we already took a shower.
“That’s the one,” Jared whispered, pointing to a room on the second floor of a small, elegant manor house. “I hit this place once before. Saw a dressing table in one of the upstairs rooms, covered in cosmetics.”
“Wait,” I said, a knot of anxiety tightening in my gut. “If you’ve robbed this place before, won’t they have improved their security? Isn’t it dangerous to go back?”
“It was over half a year ago,” he said with a confident smirk. “And it was MacDuff’s job, not mine. He cased the place for days. The master is a plantation owner from the country. He leaves every morning to tend to his fields, and he takes most of the able-bodied servants with him until night.”
He led me on a slow, casual circuit of the house. Just as he’d said, the master and his retinue were gone. But there were still two footmen at the front door, and a few other servants visible through the windows.
“They’re not allowed in the master’s chambers when he’s away,” Jared explained. “The door will be locked. All I have to do is get in through the window. Parula, you wait here.”
He had a cloth sack ready for the purpose and positioned me at a good vantage point to act as his lookout. My task was to watch if any servants entered the back garden; we had arranged a set of simple hand signals to communicate whether it was safe.
Then, choosing a moment when the street was empty, he vaulted the garden wall and disappeared into the shrubbery. He moved with a low, silent grace, using the flowerbeds as cover as he approached the house. And then he began to climb. He moved with a startling, inhuman agility, his small frame scaling the ornate stonework as if it were a ladder. In a matter of seconds, he had reached the second-story window ledge and was creeping towards his target.
My God, I thought, watching him. He wasn't just a thief. He was a creature of the shadows, as nimble and sure-footed as a cat.
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