Little Thieves (Little Thieves, #1)

by Margaret Owen

Ragne climbs onto an armchair herself, this time perching on the sturdy back. I’m pretty sure she knows how chairs work by now and is just choosing to ignore it.

He’s nicked an artery, and I am bleeding words.

“You didn’t notice when the pearls started working differently on me? I almost walked into the door, I couldn’t stop thinking—”

I can’t be wrong about him. I can’t be. Because if I am, I found someone I cared for, someone who knew my scars, someone who cared for a girl like me. And when he bared his throat to me, I answered with a knife.

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.

He believes that he is a victim, because the life he has is not the one he thinks he is owed. That in that way, the world betrayed him, just as it betrayed me. That in this, he knows me; in this, we are the same. But he will never understand that girls like me become liars, thieves, ghosts, all to survive men like him.

No matter how many times I tell myself not to panic, it never puts down roots.

I thought I didn’t believe in bravery. I just didn’t know what it was until I met you. You’ve lived with monsters for thirteen years, and you keep choosing to face them, to fight them, to walk back into their homes. I know bravery is real because I see you choose it every day.

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.

The absolute bastard. I’m—I’m going to—I’m going to save him, just so I can strangle him for making me cry again. I might kiss him first. But then I’m going to strangle him.

Here’s the thing about men like Adalbrecht von Reigenbach: They assume that once something’s in their control, it will stay in their control. They tell their subordinates that they want an entire temple district to go silent? It goes silent. They see little things like lost signet rings as inconveniences, not liabilities. They can never imagine a world in which someone else commands the same kind of power.

Above her floats Truth, who has taken the form of a wheel of eyes today. (As one does.)

“The Court of the Low Gods is convened,” Justice declares, rapping her staff against the ground. “Truth. How do we speak of you for this trial?” Truth spins a moment, then says, “I am ‘they’ for now.” “Understood. We will begin with the opening remarks. If Truth hears anything egregiously false, they may interrupt.

And that’s it kids. Pronouns are truly that easy.

Emeric is staring at me. “Vanja, no.” “Vanja, yes.

“Correct,” Truth whispers. “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.

“Sometimes you just have to throw spätzle at the wall and see what sticks, Junior.” “You absolutely do not, that is how you get ruined spätzle—”

“It’s not funny,” I growl. “She tricked you,” he says with unabashed delight, “into deposing a tyrant. That’s very funny.”

“Gods can’t be wrong,” Death says, “but mothers can.”

“Who in this room would you sell for ten thousand gilden?” It’s the Queen of Grails. “Everyone,” Joniza answers with zero hesitation. She’s also moved into the castle now. It’s a much better stage than the bard-in-residence of Castle Falbirg. “Ten thousand? Done. And then I’d hire Vanja to steal you back.”

I thought about going to see her, going to taunt her, and then I realized she had to live with the fact that I was running around, free as a bird, while she was locked up in a cold, grim cell. (I went and taunted her anyway. No regrets.

This was, perhaps, not the best time to have shackled him to the bench. Emeric looks down to find an iron cuff around one of his wrists. “Vanja.” “You shouldn’t carry manacles around if you don’t want me to use them,” I inform him before I kiss him again.

“I want you to catch me,” I answer, and it is alien and thrilling to say it aloud. And I slip into the night, knowing he will keep his word, and follow.

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.

This book is, above all, for the ones who told their stories. Whether it was easy or agonizing, on a national stage or to a blank page, whether it left scar tissue or a smoking crater. Thank you for saying the words, and know that it changed something, even if that change seems immeasurable.

Fingers crossed for a significantly less Old Testament year for us all! (Unless we’re drinking tyrants under the table and then beheading them, in which case, you better call.)

My cats were marginally useful for this book, at least for research purposes, so that earns them a single acknowledgment. I will not elaborate further.

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

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