A bit long and probably pretty boring, so sorry about that. It's part of this longer story I've been working on and I decided to post it to see what people thought of it. So not really a one-shot, but it's not going to be updated, either. ✿✿✿ He's breathing too much. The constant, rapid exhales skim across the bare shoulders of the woman in front of him. A minuscule bead of sweat slips down his forehead, glistening in the candlelight for a few brief seconds before evaporating into the dry air. His calloused fingers twitch ever so slightly on the glossy rosewood table. The movements are so subtle, the majority of the socialites attending the gala wouldn't think twice about him. His companion is no ordinary socialite. She grasps his trembling fingers, beckoning a frazzled waiter over with her free hand. "Would you be a darling and bring us the roasted boar from the menu? I know you aren't serving quite yet, but I absolutely love it," she chatters. "You have to make an exception." The couple continues shuffling down the large ballroom like this — holding hands tightly and conversing aimlessly with whomever they see — until they reach the end. A crisply dressed man ushers them smoothly to a table draped in a blinding white cloth. One small flame flickers demurely atop the surface. The woman throws her arms excitedly around her companion. "This is amazing, darling," she gushes. "Anything for you." His satin-smooth voice has a slight hitch in his voice. Most would chalk it up to leftover nervousness over whether or not she would like the auction. She leans in close to whisper something, so soft that it's inaudible even to the servant scurrying over to them with a plate of roasted boar. "You're acting like you're about to challenge someone to a duel. You're going to screw up all of my planning, so smile, laugh, and for god's sake, stop shaking." Once the faint words trickle in, she murmurs a bit louder, "I'm so lucky to be with you." The man exposes a glimmeringly white set of teeth. "Likewise. Now, shall we go mingle?" He drapes his arm over her and they descend gracefully down the few steps into the elegant crowd. ✿✿✿ It's evening now, the sky a dusky velvet behind the frosted glass windows. Servers have long since cleared the plates away and replaced them with intricately carved trays of desserts. The portions are a single bite at the most. "I'm going to go… take care of business. Would you mind watching my purse, darling?" "The duke is about to give his speech. Are you sure it can't wait?" "I'm very sure." He chuckles. "Okay. It's best I go with you. You don't have the best sense of direction, and it would be rather embarrassing to not even be able to find the toilets." Smoothly, he rises from his chair and extends an elbow to the woman. "My lady." They stroll confidently through the high arched doorway. No one questions them or wonders why they're moving in the opposite direction from their intended destination. Once they reach the heavy wooden door at the back corner of the manor, they stop. The woman deftly extracts a pin from her elaborate hairstyle and slides it in the lock. A faint click sounds, producing a satisfied smile. "Wish me luck." "Robyn—" he starts, shifting nervously. But it's no use. She's already slipped inside. Robyn glances grimly around the paper-strewn room. Teetering stacks rest on the desk, chairs, and bookcases, threatening to fall any moment. Of course he wouldn't make this easy. She scans the papers on the tops of the piles, hoping to figure out some method of organization. Nothing. "If I were a thieving duke, where would I put my tax records?" she mutters frantically under her breath. "No need for secrecy — this room is always locked. The desk! Taxes were collected yesterday. He was probably recording them recently." Robyn dashes over to it, an immense slab of dark, rich wood that takes up at least a quarter of the whole room. The first few stacks of parchment are ordinary records. Inventory, treasury, nothing to prove he has been taxing his citizens double what the king ordered. If only Cassius hadn't been captured. He's good at finding stuff, not Robyn; she was just going to pick the lock and get them in and out of the heavily guarded estate. Instead he had to go get framed for a murder, leaving her to find some incompetent fool to help her carry out their plan. She growls in frustration and shoves aside a stack of letters bound neatly together with rough twine. Your Majesty, the king and queen are returning from their holiday soon. Perhaps a bit of poison could find its way into their welcome home meal. Or they could be lost at sea… Wait, what? "Guests are to stay in the ballroom at all times." The pompous voice drifts through the crack underneath the door, paralyzing Robyn in her tracks. "My apologies, m'lord. I was simply wondering where the toilets were located." "I assure you, they are not in here. Go down this hallway and turn left." "Oh… um…" "Yes?" "Greatest thanks, m'lord." Uncertain footsteps trail off, becoming fainter and fainter. Scrabbling sounds come from the door. Robyn huddles behind the bookcase, not daring to so much as breathe, trying to shrink farther into herself, until… "Blast it! Where are my keys?" The sound of another pair of footsteps pound off. They're so loud, Robyn marvels at how she could have possibly missed them before. Soon silence settles over the dusty room once more. Now is the perfect time to slip out, leave before anyone notices someone broke in, and Robyn is just about to do that. But she can't. She couldn't do that to the starving families who can't even afford a simple meal each day. The emaciated children who stare hollowly, blankly, their gaunt faces no longer registering any emotion. All of them are dying. And they all know it. "It's Tobin." The hushed voice is followed by a light tap. She quickly swings open the door, returning to her task after he shuts the door quietly behind him. "We have to leave. Now. Did you find it?" A long pause. "No," Robyn manages to mumble out, tearing though the stacks of papers and books. "Then leave it. We're going to be caught any second, and I know how important this is to you, but it's not worth it. You don't want the same fate as Cassius. Please, Robyn. The duke's going to find the key soon and we don't even know if the records will have any proof—" "Then leave by yourself," she snaps. "You don't know anything, Tobin. You don't get it. Either you're completely ignorant, or you're so cruel that you don't think two lives are a reasonable price to pay for hundreds of other lives." "I… I just want to help you. We can always try a different tactic, a different time, but if we get captured now, there will be no one left to fight for them." The hurt in his tone is evident. Robyn sighs, trying to speak more softly. "I'm sorry. Can we just- can we not do this now? I know we have to get out of here, but…" She trails off when she spots the leather-bound ledger book with "Taxes" embossed in gold on the cover. "Come on. Let's go." Tobin cracks open the door, immediately slamming it closed again. "They're at the end of the hallway. I don't think they saw me, but we have to move fast." Hastily, Robyn tries to pry the latch on the window open. It's bolted shut. She snatches up a thick book from the shelves and hefts it at the window, grunting from the weight. Mercifully, it shatters. Sparkling fragments shower onto the neatly trimmed lawn. "Go!" She picks up the letters and the ledger and clutches tightly to them, hurtling herself out the window a few precious moments after him. Crimson blood accompanied by a stinging pain seeps out of gashes caused by the jagged edges of whatever glass is still embedded in the window frame. Adrenaline shoots through her veins, immediately masking the discomfort. The key turns in the lock back at the room in the manor. Its click is audible in the still night. The muddy ground, sopping from a recent dose of rain, clings to her towering stilettos and she pauses for a few seconds to rip them off. Tobin darts into the woods several yards ahead and is soon gone from sight. An indignant scream pierces the heavy air. "Guards!" It propels her and she's off, her soles barely glancing off the grass before lifting up for the next step, desperately trying to close those last yards to the cover of shadows. Irregular footsteps sound from behind her — squelching and sliding and slipping. Curses ring out, no doubt a product of the duke tripping and stumbling face first into a patch of mud. "Thieves! Stop them!" No one answers. They're all on the other side of the estate, in the ballroom, just like he ordered. That is, except for the extra guards. Those are stationed outside the front entrance. They're in charge of keeping the lower class out of this exclusive gala, and are also on the opposite side of his manor. Robyn smiles triumphantly. A swish of her long skirts, a flick of her fiery hair, and she's gone, vanished into the darkness. ✿✿✿ The prison guard throws a hunk of moldy bread through the bars of a dingy cell. "Murderer," he spits malevolently. It bounces a few times before resting on the mildewy floor. The replying voice is everything the guard isn't. Cool, calm, collected, even mildly laced with humor. "I've told you before, I didn't do it. But I know you won't believe me. That's your loss." "I'll enjoy watching you hang. You're a filthy, good-for-nothing murderer, not even worthy of licking my boots." He extracts a heavy stone from his pocket and hurls it between the bars towards the prisoner. "That kind of hurt. You know, you're actually getting better at your throwing skills." The guard sneers resentfully at his chipper tone and stomps toward the other guard, a short, stocky man poring over a scroll. "Anything new? Do we need to send out another person to hunt down any criminals? Or is it, you know…" his voice drops to a whisper, "bounty hunter work?" "No need to do anything that drastic — not to mention technically illegal — yet," his companion replies, referring to the latter of the two suggestions. "Two people broke into the Duke of Cerlyn's manor last night, but no one remembers what they look like or who they are. Apparently they posed as some foreign nobility and blended right in. No one knows what they stole, and the duke wouldn't say. Maybe he's trying to hide something." "Dabbling in something against the law, then, eh?" They both laugh heartily at his joke. The Duke of Cerlyn, also commonly referred to as the king's lapdog, has been one of the royal family's most trusted advisors for decades. "The ol' duke wouldn't dare to do anything without the king's permission, not even eat his breakfast? 'Are these eggs okay, Your Majesty? Oh, this hen isn't right? Yes, sire! Of course, sire, I'll go buy a hundred more hens to find one that suits your fancy!'" This is met with another roaring round of laughter. The taller guard proclaims, "God knows he has enough money to afford it!" They lapse into a comfortable silence after that while the short guard finishes reading. "Huh," he grunts. "Guess they don't think those two thieves will ever be found." "Oh well. No skin off our nose. At least we won't be sent off on a wild goose chase like that robbery a few months ago." They begin discussing other topics, so distracted that they don't even notice the slow grin overtaking the prisoner's face. They did it. ✿✿✿