Little Thieves (Little Thieves, #1)

by Margaret Owen

To the gremlin girls, I would like to tell you something inspiring, but the truth is, when life closes a door for us, it doesn’t always open a window. The good news is: That’s what bricks are for.

Little thieves steal gold, and great ones steal kingdoms, but only one goes to the gallows.

Ordinarily, the only trouble with solving a problem like Adalbrecht would be deciding between arsenic and hemlock.

Choices choices

“I’m not angry,” Death says in the seat across from me, “just disappointed.”

“You’re what happens when an encyclopedia wishes on a star to be a real boy, if that encyclopedia was also an absolute prick.”

“You see,” I say gravely, “when two people love each other very much, or at least think the other’s passable if they squint—” “Yes I understand now thank you.” I can practically hear his blush.

There’s a shimmering, intoxicating kind of thrill to it, this game between us. I am his puzzle and he is my lock, and it’s an arms race to solve the other first. But somewhere in all the knots and twists and trapdoors, he turned to an arsonist, leaving his embers in my veins, smoke on my tongue, a fire burning softly in my heart. And it will not die easy.