Little Thieves (Little Thieves, #1)

by Margaret Owen

I cannot believe I’m attracted to a human civics primer.

You would think the most formidable thing in Castle Reigenbach wouldn’t be a reedy law library incarnate, but in that moment—he is, because I believe him.

It’s not a challenge; it’s a quiet, immovable fact. For all my schemes and façades and artifice, I am not prepared in the slightest for the simple, devastating intimacy of being believed.

I want the simple peace of being known by him; I want this strange, terrible hope he’s given me, that I could build a life where I choose, instead of living ready to leave everything behind.

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.

“So you can pass messages undetected. Or…” He makes an exasperated noise. “Vanja.” I look up innocently. “Yes?” Ragne cackles, pointing at my mirror. “That’s a butt.” “I’m just testing it,” I say, straight-faced.

I’m at a loss for words. Probably because I’m having an extraordinary and overwhelming number of feelings right now, and chief among them is outrage that I am this attracted to a personified pocket ledger.

No wonder Gisele fell for Ragne. It’s the same reason Ragne was the first new person I’d call a friend: Ragne loves who she loves without question, without games.

And suddenly we’re both laughing and crying and jumping in place. It feels like a curse has broken, one older and bitterer than Eiswald’s. It’s not just that Gisele defended me. It’s that some part of me needed to see it, to understand that the prince and dame could be cracked, and we could both walk away.

I have not, however, spent a single moment preparing for someone thinking Gisele is real and her maid is the disguise. I gape at Barthl. And then I blurt out: “Who’s Gisele?” Then: “Wait. Uh.”

“M-my husband and I are thinking of starting a family here,” he stumbles. “I just want what’s best for us all.” “You’re married?” I ask, amazed. “We’re best friends and you didn’t even tell me?” Barthl stands from his pew. “I’m leaving.”

That girls like me, neither lovely of face nor sweet of temper, are not courted. They are simply used to pass the time.

Somehow, I’ve let all these people, even Barthl, matter to me. I’ve found them shelter and smuggled them around the castle and fought monsters and somehow, somehow, I have let myself be—loyal. And now they don’t need me. No more than they trust me.

There is one person in this world who I can trust to need me, and that is myself alone. They may not need a thief and a liar, but I do. I do, if I want to survive.

“You have no right,” I snarl, “to tell me a damned thing about what I care for. I have nothing after this but what I take myself. I am a commoner and an orphan and a servant, and I have only survived by being selfish, because who else will care about a girl like me?”

Nothing stolen is ever mine. But there’s another truth on the other side of that coin: What is mine can always be stolen. I will not be anyone’s servant, not even my own; I will always be a thief. I am never going to let myself be happy. I’m always, always going to steal it from myself.

I am too much for him. I am not enough. In the end, I find I still have tears left after all.

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.

“Besides, do you know how much money that coin’s worth? I’m guessing at least five horses.” “That is incorrect,” Truth sighs. I glare up at them. “Must you?” Their eyes blink at me, slow and unsynchronized. “Yes.”

“I might like you after all, Truth.” I would say Truth winks at me, but they have an untold myriad of eyes, so honestly it’s anyone’s guess.

He looks like he wants to kiss me. And a little like he wants to strangle me. We are meant for each other.

I am seventeen, I am a daughter, I am no one’s servant but my own. I am wanted. I am free.

She was a little thief, and everyone said she died at the gallows. One day, she told her own story, and everything changed.

I am the daughter of Death and Fortune; I have come down from the mountain with my sisters. We have passed through the thorns. We have thrown out the wolf. We have told our own stories, named our destinies ourselves. If I fall, I fall without fear. So I will tell you: My name is Vanja. And this is the story of how I am caught.

And lastly, to all the terrible girls: It’s a lie. You deserve the world.