Little Thieves (Little Thieves, #1)

by Margaret Owen

There’s a saying in the Blessed Empire: Little thieves steal gold, and great ones steal kingdoms, but only one goes to the gallows. I’m not sure I agree. I’ve little interest in kingdoms, but even less in dancing with the hangman. And I’ve gotten very good—great, you might even say—at stealing gold.

There’s something bitter about parting with someone who had a hand in who you are now; it’s even bitterer when that hand left scars.

Her mother is a Low God, and her father is a human, and she is not quite either, and she is not quite kin with anything, and she is not quite of any world.

No matter how many cards I lay between myself and the rest of the world, no matter how many lies I tell, how many lives I steal, it will never be enough. I will never escape the ghost in the mirror. I will never escape her, because I am haunted by myself.

I see myself for what I am: a scared girl, alone in a cruel world, abandoned by family and friend, who would rather turn herself to bloodstained stone than let anyone get close enough to leave another scar. A girl who would rather die than serve anyone ever again. Even myself. And it is killing me.

All my options come with a price. All I can do is choose which one to pay.

Don’t panic might as well be carved into my bones, and that, at least, I can count on.

I’m sure he’s enjoyed speculating and theorizing and reading the tea leaves, but—it’s my life. They’re my scars.

I am not going to smile at him. I refuse on principle. (The principle is: I’ve already met my emotional-availability quota for the day.)

It’s like what you were saying about there being no such thing as bravery. I’ve made it this long because I’m used to all my choices being unpleasant.” He huffs a bitter laugh. “You must think me a terrible coward.” “Not really. Just someone who values his principles more than his own lifespan.”

The maid was learning to lie, you see, because she had learned the truth would not protect her.

I knew from the scars on my back that Gisele would look the other way while Adalbrecht ate me alive. She would throw me to the wolves if it meant she would survive another day. But she never suspected I, her loyal, obedient maid, would do the same.

careful as though it’s all a spun-glass dream, breakable if she presses too hard. More careful than she’d ever been with me.

I don’t know what’s worse: that he’s slipped into my heart like a knife, or that I like the feel of him there.

I catch my breath. There are too many wolves at my door:

I stare at her. The princess and the loyal maid died in the woods together a year ago; we are just two girls trying to survive now. And this is it. This is how we take down the wolf: together.

But he will never understand that girls like me become liars, thieves, ghosts, all to survive men like him.

I am dying. I am not enough. I am a broken girl in a world that wants me in smaller pieces still.

I’m afraid I will be one more person who fails you. I know I think you’re afraid of that too. Please don’t run I can’t ask you to choose me this us to stay, but I want to be with you more than I fear losing you. If you want me to chase you, I will chase you. If you want me to find you, I will find you. If you’ll have me, I will choose you every time. Maybe I’ve finally learned to be brave.