Painted Devils (Little Thieves, #2)

by Margaret Owen

The wicked maid, preoccupied as she was with her quest for one of myriad words that rhymes with river, found herself abruptly ambushed by the planks of the bridge. She was not certain how they had managed to get the drop on her, only that one moment she was maintaining a respectful and professional distance from the ground, and the next she was intimately acquainted with the woodgrain.

So she did what any rational person would do, having cut herself off from her loved ones, failed to find gainful employ after two straight weeks of searching, and then drunkenly ejected most of her personal wealth into a river in the wee hours of what could generously be called the butthole of winter. She gave up. She lay facedown on the dung-stained boards of the bridge and cried. She cried like a routed general. She cried like a jilted bride. She cried like a two-year-old who has been told they cannot eat rocks.

(I’ll be honest: I didn’t remember much else from the ballad, only that the man playing it should have been charged with murdering a lute.)

Let me state one thing up front: I wasn’t trying to start a cult.

I staged a maudlin miracle involving a bonfire, more flash powders, and a goat. (Don’t ask.) Suffice to say it didn’t work (I blame the goat),

he still looks like a soothsayer stood over his crib and heralded the birth of an accounting ledger made flesh.

But you know that feeling? The one where your entire brain melts out through your earholes because your head is on fire, and the rest of your body overcompensates by freezing on the spot, and the only thing left in your skull is a ghost marching in a circle and banging two pots together? That’s about where I’m at. So the best I can muster is an utterly clotheslined “Scheit.” Somewhere behind me, another goats lets out a scream, I can only imagine in solidarity.

“You started a cult?” “No! I mean … a little?” My hands ball up in my billowing sleeves. “It’s cult-adjacent? Cult-ish?”

“How, exactly, isn’t this what it looks like?” Irritation creeps back into Emeric’s tone. “Did the cult spring into existence fully formed, just waiting for a prophet when you came along?” “No,” I grunt as I try to pry the sheep off my skirt. “I—” “Did the Scarlet Maiden descend to you in a vision and say you’d die in a cart accident if you didn’t tell five friends about her by midnight?” “Now you’re just being ridiculous.”

I try to muster a convincing degree of jubilation. Internally, of course, the ghost in my skull has ditched the two pots and opted instead for the goat scream.

“There’s only one bed.”

✨there’s only one bed✨

“You know how I would introduce you? I would say, ‘This is Vanja, the bravest person I’ve ever met.’ Or ‘This is Vanja; there’s a statue of her in Minkja.’ Or ‘This is Vanja; there’s a statue of her in Minkja because a god put it there.’”

“That’s not fair, making him investigate Vanja when they’re…” His mouth twists with uncertainty, and he lands on “roommates.”

And they were roommates

I wonder if Kirkling knows exactly what manner of pedantic, punctilious, annotated-within-an-inch-of-its-life beast she’s just unleashed.

It did not leave time for Emeric and me to have a private moment to ourselves to … revisit our prebreakfast activities. Which is fine. It’s fine. I’ve only spent the past hour thinking about the way he rolled up his shirtsleeves, well, an hour ago. I’m pretty sure exposed forearms qualify as a personal attack.

“Vanja was the reason I survived a major case in Minkja, which we won only because of her,” Emeric says firmly, ducking under a gnarled branch. “If you think I’m exaggerating, Minkja has a statue of her now. One a Low God put there.” Oh, the bastard, I think my heart’s going to explode.

Lol he *actually* did it 🤣

“Exciting.” Emeric continues down the corridor. “Dormant gods, ancient hellhounds, unprecedented loopholes in prefectorial-godly regulations…” “I don’t feel like those belong on the same scale of exciting,” I note. “Agree to disagree.”

I haven’t bedded anyone yet because I haven’t desired it, and for much of the world, that means there must be something wrong with me. That the older I get, the more it becomes something to get over with instead of something to want for myself. That the reason can’t be because I rarely desire people that way; it must be that I’m undesirable.

(I can’t believe I actually feel bad about lying. Lying might be the most-legal thing I’m good at.

Look, I’m not going to tell you how to feel about sex or that you should even feel comfortable talking about it with me. I will tell you that it demands communication, especially about your health and safety.

Kirkling looks like she’s bitten into a lemon, if that lemon were made of bees. (So a fig, I suppose.)

“I’m shocked,” I say to Emeric. “I thought the first rule of your prefect charter was I solemnly swear to keep a stick up my ass, permanently, no takebacks.”

There’s a saying here in the north: ‘A child’s eye fears the painted devil, but an elder wields the brush.’ We fear what we’re taught to fear, not necessarily because it’s worth fearing. I see a devil on the wall. Real or not, the question that matters is who put it there.”

I’m not optimistic about luring him back out with anything short of a subscription to an Abacus-of-the-Month Club.

Little thieves tell themselves they take what they need to survive, and sometimes that’s true, and sometimes it’s a lie. Great thieves don’t fool themselves about their motives; they take things because they want them, end of story. The only lie they tell themselves is that there’s no difference between wanting something and deserving it.

That’s the funny thing about people who have never truly felt unsafe, though: They expect danger to ride right through the front gate. (And usually wearing a sign that reads, I am danger. I cannot emphasize enough how easy it was to rob people when they believed I was rich.)

this overgrown love child of a beanpole and a dictionary still has my hand in an iron grip,

“I recall you. I believe you threw a knife at my face.” There’s a thoracic little death rattle behind me. I’m pretty sure it’s the sound of Emeric’s world crumbling at the fact that he’s pissed off the saint of libraries.

I can’t find the words, because for so long I have lived afraid of feeling like this, like roots might grow through my skin instead of thorns, and I wonder if roses, too, fear the moment the petals break through the bud. But bloom they must,

“If you are going to commence conjugal relations, you may wish to turn me to face a wall.” The heady bubble of intimacy between us unceremoniously pops. It turns out there are few things that kill the mood faster than realizing you have a haunted doll for a voyeur.

“You are good at this.” “There’s a reason it took a, well, an Emeric to catch me.”

“First of all: He is not my boy, he is a strong, independent young protractor,”

“Blood and family are not the same,”

“Madame,” Emeric says coolly. “Prefect,” she returns, batting unnaturally teal eyes at him, and that’s when I decide I’m going to burn this place to the ground.

“I’d have you work another position, dear, but I’m afraid you’d only make us money lying facedown.” The worst part isn’t that I’m used to it. People always act like they’re the first one to call you ugly, when you’ve been navigating a world that won’t let you forget. The worst part is that, even so, it rips at the scab every time. Part of me still chokes up. Will always choke up. Will flash through every single one of those searing reminders in a heartbeat. Will hear Irmgard cooing, Now your back is as ugly as your front.

I’d have you work another position, dear, but I’m afraid you’d only make us money lying facedown.” The worst part isn’t that I’m used to it. People always act like they’re the first one to call you ugly, when you’ve been navigating a world that won’t let you forget. The worst part is that, even so, it rips at the scab every time. Part of me still chokes up. Will always choke up. Will flash through every single one of those searing reminders in a heartbeat. Will hear Irmgard cooing, Now your back is as ugly as your front. ... Emeric swiftly plants his hands on the desk, blocking Madame’s view of me. I can’t see the look on his face, but I can hear the sudden switchblade edge in his voice, see the flicker of uncertainty in Madame. “I promise you,” he says, with his deadly kind of calm, “for the rest of your life, you will look back on this moment and know that was the worst mistake you’ll ever make.” ... “Is that a threat, Prefect?” Madame asks. ... Emeric doesn’t move. “I don’t threaten the inevitable.” ... “I have a code of conduct,” he says mildly. “So the worst mistake of your life wasn’t upsetting me. It was starting a fight with her.”

Emeric swiftly plants his hands on the desk, blocking Madame’s view of me. I can’t see the look on his face, but I can hear the sudden switchblade edge in his voice, see the flicker of uncertainty in Madame. “I promise you,” he says, with his deadly kind of calm, “for the rest of your life, you will look back on this moment and know that was the worst mistake you’ll ever make.”

I’d have you work another position, dear, but I’m afraid you’d only make us money lying facedown.” The worst part isn’t that I’m used to it. People always act like they’re the first one to call you ugly, when you’ve been navigating a world that won’t let you forget. The worst part is that, even so, it rips at the scab every time. Part of me still chokes up. Will always choke up. Will flash through every single one of those searing reminders in a heartbeat. Will hear Irmgard cooing, Now your back is as ugly as your front. ... Emeric swiftly plants his hands on the desk, blocking Madame’s view of me. I can’t see the look on his face, but I can hear the sudden switchblade edge in his voice, see the flicker of uncertainty in Madame. “I promise you,” he says, with his deadly kind of calm, “for the rest of your life, you will look back on this moment and know that was the worst mistake you’ll ever make.” ... “Is that a threat, Prefect?” Madame asks. ... Emeric doesn’t move. “I don’t threaten the inevitable.” ... “I have a code of conduct,” he says mildly. “So the worst mistake of your life wasn’t upsetting me. It was starting a fight with her.”

“Is that a threat, Prefect?” Madame asks.

I’d have you work another position, dear, but I’m afraid you’d only make us money lying facedown.” The worst part isn’t that I’m used to it. People always act like they’re the first one to call you ugly, when you’ve been navigating a world that won’t let you forget. The worst part is that, even so, it rips at the scab every time. Part of me still chokes up. Will always choke up. Will flash through every single one of those searing reminders in a heartbeat. Will hear Irmgard cooing, Now your back is as ugly as your front. ... Emeric swiftly plants his hands on the desk, blocking Madame’s view of me. I can’t see the look on his face, but I can hear the sudden switchblade edge in his voice, see the flicker of uncertainty in Madame. “I promise you,” he says, with his deadly kind of calm, “for the rest of your life, you will look back on this moment and know that was the worst mistake you’ll ever make.” ... “Is that a threat, Prefect?” Madame asks. ... Emeric doesn’t move. “I don’t threaten the inevitable.” ... “I have a code of conduct,” he says mildly. “So the worst mistake of your life wasn’t upsetting me. It was starting a fight with her.”

Emeric doesn’t move. “I don’t threaten the inevitable.”

“I’d have you work another position, dear, but I’m afraid you’d only make us money lying facedown.” The worst part isn’t that I’m used to it. People always act like they’re the first one to call you ugly, when you’ve been navigating a world that won’t let you forget. The worst part is that, even so, it rips at the scab every time. Part of me still chokes up. Will always choke up. Will flash through every single one of those searing reminders in a heartbeat. Will hear Irmgard cooing, Now your back is as ugly as your front. ... Emeric swiftly plants his hands on the desk, blocking Madame’s view of me. I can’t see the look on his face, but I can hear the sudden switchblade edge in his voice, see the flicker of uncertainty in Madame. “I promise you,” he says, with his deadly kind of calm, “for the rest of your life, you will look back on this moment and know that was the worst mistake you’ll ever make.” ... “Is that a threat, Prefect?” Madame asks. ... Emeric doesn’t move. “I don’t threaten the inevitable.” ... “I have a code of conduct,” he says mildly. “So the worst mistake of your life wasn’t upsetting me. It was starting a fight with her.”

“I have a code of conduct,” he says mildly. “So the worst mistake of your life wasn’t upsetting me. It was starting a fight with her.”

“I’m tired,” I say quietly, “of watching the empire make a thousand more girls like me, every day.”

Some part of me has always held back, clinging to the fear that I cannot be both known and wanted, that I will always have to surrender to one.

I wind up stealing his breeches and shirt to go put in a dinner order downstairs. (This is also how we find out that’s a thing for Emeric, as he takes one look and promptly delays me for another ten minutes.)

I think I understand, now, why they say you fall in love, because I don’t think I could climb out of this feeling even if I wanted to. What a beautiful trap I’ve built for myself. What a horror, what a delight, to find I’ve been caught.

try not to break too many laws?” I tap my chin, thinking, and say, with more than a little incredulity, “It might actually all be technically legal. How embarrassing.”

There’s something that seems like it ought to be a shop front counter, if a counter moonlighted as a kitchen table, had a side gig as a workbench, and freelanced as a garbage bin.

“Innovation demands a certain disregard for boundaries.”

“If more prefects were like you … I think the empire would make fewer girls like me.” Emeric is making the strangest face, blinking rapidly. “Well,” he says, hoarse, “I think that would be a terrible loss.” He grimaces. “The … fewer-people-like-you part. Not the reduction of gross societal injustice.”

To call the experience “troubling” would be like locking someone in a closet with an angry wolverine and calling it “a bonding exercise.”

“I spent an hour tasting seasons and staring at tapestries until I fell off a waterfall.”

“Am I supposed to swallow it or bite down?” I ask. “Or does it pop? The last time I did this, it was just murder juice.”