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“Under the lever,” muttered Heather, working a probe in a detached lock. “Then push,” she said, and with a twist of her wrist, the lock popped open. She smiled. Then the smile disappeared, replaced by a scowl of determination. She grabbed the key beside her, placed it in the lock, and turned. It clicked satisfyingly. She put the key back down and picked up the probe again. She began again. “Catch ‘em,” she muttered, raising and lowering the probe, her thumb tight on the tension rod. “Under the lever,” she repeated. “Then push,” she said, and the lock popped open. She smiled again. “That was less than ten seconds.” She put the lock down. “One handed, too.” She smiled wider. “I think I’m ready.”
She got up off the bed and paced the small inn room. Next time I see an opportunity with a locked door, go for it? she wondered. Or design a job around a locked door? Big ideas swirled in her head. The upper tier of the city. The great villas outside of town. Infinite riches. Her reverie was pierced by a memory: Zenna swinging at the end of a rope, her face surprised somehow. Better to be careful, she thought.
She assessed her wardrobe. I need Blossom’s red dress for my shift, then the traveler outfit afterwards, she thought. She selected those clothes and folded them delicately before placing them in her knapsack. She looked around to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything, nodded, and headed out the door, locking it behind her.
Heather strode through the city until she reached a small pocket of upscale businesses. She eyed the businesses in a new light. Anything worth breaking into? Worth burning this job, anyway? She walked past a small porcelain shop and into an art gallery.
“This one is really an example of what our mission accomplishes,” said an old halfling woman in a shawl. Round glasses sat on her nose, and she looked over them. “This is from an artist at the north edge of the lake,” she said, gesturing to a calming painting of a forested mountainside. “He never would have been able to create this without our patronage program.”
The guests, a pair of middle-aged halfling men, nodded, glancing at each other. “Very good,” said one.
Heather waved to the old woman, who waved back and then pointed to the small counter in the corner. Heather held her thumb in the air and headed to the counter. There was a list of things for Heather to attend to: dusting, sales, handling deliveries, all tasks she had performed dozens of times. She began at the top of the list: unpacking a few new deliveries in the back. She pushed past a door and into a small stockroom, carefully tearing open packages with art inside.
A minute later, the old woman swept in. “Good morning, Blossom,” she said. “Busy morning.”
“That looked promising,” said Heather pleasantly. “New investors?”
The old woman flailed her arms dramatically. “Perhaps,” she said sadly. “They said they would let me know tomorrow. Never a good sign.”
Heather smiled. “C’mon, Miss Sandy, they’ll come around,” she said. “They really seemed to like what you were saying about the patronage program.”
Sandy rolled her eyes. “You only say that because it was your idea,” she said playfully. “Though I do have to admit, you have an uncanny sense of when someone wants to buy. If I were more greedy than proud, I’d have you on the floor closing deals.”
Heather hid that she was beaming. “Oh, hush,” she said sweetly. “I’m just good with people.”
Sandy looked to the door. “Well, whatever it is, I may have to keep you around. Things have been really picking up since you came around.”
Heather reflected on the last two months. Things were tough all around the city, so she’d been forced from a few otherwise stable jobs for want of pay. Working with Sandy had been good. Heather hadn’t figured out a way to actually profit from working here–Sandy could keep a closer watch on sales with fewer deals to keep the business going. Nevertheless, the honest pay was enough to keep her afloat, and she’d saved a fair amount.
As the shift wore on, Heather quietly attended to the various tasks of the to-do list with what looked to anyone else like enthusiasm. Really, it was nervous energy. Only a few more hours, she thought. Just keep your head down.
Finally, as the sun’s rays filtered failingly through the trees, Sandy ushered the last guest out the door. Heather had already begun to sweep the main exhibition area, the back already clean.
“Not a bad day at all,” said Sandy, patting her hips. “I’m actually going to need help hanging some new pieces tomorrow, if you can make it in early.”
Heather contained a wince. I wanted to stay out tonight, she thought glumly. “I’ll be here,” she said happily.
“How far away do your folks live anyway? I hope it’s not too far a walk,” said Sandy.
Heather’s mind raced. Can I get away with pretending I still live at home? Sandy’s smart. I can’t get away with that. “Uh, I don’t live with my folks,” she said.
Sandy cocked an eyebrow. “How old are you? You look no more than thirteen.”
Heather chuckled. How old can I get away with saying I am? Could I sell eighteen? She thought quickly. I can barely sell my real age. I guess I’ll go with that. “I’m sixteen,” she said.
“Sixteen and living on your own,” Sandy said sadly. “Trouble at home?”
You mean, like not talking to my mom for over a year? Or more like her hating everything about me? “Something like that,” said Heather sweetly. “It’s really okay. I enjoy having my own place.”
Sandy looked at Heather for a long moment. “You know, if it works for you, that’s all that matters,” she said eventually. “Good night, Blossom.”
“Good night, Miss Sandy,” said Heather.
“Ugh, just Sandy,” said Sandy. “Now I know you’re not really a kid, it feels weird to be ‘Miss Sandy.’”
Heather laughed. “Okay. Good night, Sandy.” And she walked out into the warm night air, run through by the excitement of something you have waited all day for.
—
Heather made a beeline for the market district. She had already stealthily changed into her traveler’s outfit, and she scanned the edge of the market. A troupe of bards wound their way between stalls, loudly playing a halfling folk tune. Vendors shouted over the din, hawking their wares. A muscled orc set up to arm wrestle two halflings. She continued looking around until she saw what she was looking for. She walked quickly over.
“Hey,” she said casually.
“Oh, hey,” said Agnes. A few weeks ago, she had gotten her hair cut short, and Heather found herself trying to not stare.
“You ready?” asked Heather after a moment.
“I guess so,” said Agnes, staring off into the market. “You?”
Heather nodded. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “On three?”
Agnes nodded back. “One,” she said.
“Two,” said Heather.
“Three,” they said together. They walked side-by-side into the market.
“Oh, I’ve never seen such exotic baubles!” shouted Heather in a strange voice. “Look at these delightful trinkets!” She gazed at some simple candlesticks on a stall.
“They don’t have candlesticks where she comes from,” explained Agnes to the surprised vendor. “She’s never been to a city before.”
“Oh my!” cried Heather, her voice even stranger. “What are these devilish little contraptions?” she asked, pointing to a tarnished fork.
“Oh, those are forks, Englebrecht,” replied Agnes happily. “They’re for food!”
The vendor narrowed his eyes. “Move along, weirdos,” he said.
“We’re weirdos!” shouted Heather, adding as much silliness as she could to the pronunciation. “We have to leave because we’re so strange!”
“Oh, the poor man doesn’t want our weird money,” said Agnes sadly. “Too bad. Good bye, silly man!”
“Yes, good bye, normal person!” cried Heather, and the pair ran giggling deeper into the market.
They performed this routine again and again into the night. Heather would pretend not to recognize a simple object, and Agnes would explain its use, until the vendor tired of their antics and shooed them away.
“You’re acting like little kids!” yelled the last vendor. “Grow up!”
Agnes’s arm was slung over Heather’s shoulders, and they laughed as they walked away.
“Grow up!” mimicked Agnes, moving her arms as though swinging treebranches.
“You’re acting like little kids!” said Heather in her strange voice again.
They laughed together, Agnes slapping her knee.
“We’re not really acting like little kids, though, right?” asked Heather after a moment. “Like, we’re just having fun.”
Agnes shrugged. “Who cares? We’re having fun.”
Heather looked down. “But why do we do it? It is kinda . . . silly.”
Agnes scoffed. “That’s why we do it, idiot,” she teased. “Don’t overthink it.”
Heather became lost in thought. I don’t do it because it’s fun. Why do I do it? I mean, Agnes likes it, but–
Agnes had placed her hand on Heather’s shoulder and was looking directly at her. Heather felt her body tense. Right, she thought. Because Agnes likes it.
“You’re overthinking it,” said Agnes. “I can see it on your face.”
Heather inhaled sharply and shrugged. “I was. Guilty as charged.”
Agnes pulled Heather into a hug. “That was a good one,” she said. “Thanks.”
Heather hugged Agnes back as lightly as possible. “No problem,” she said. “Again sometime soon?”
“You know it,” said Agnes. “Good night, overthinker.”
Heather blushed and hoped that Agnes’s turning away had concealed it. “Good night, travel guide,” she said sweetly.
And in a moment, Agnes was gone. Heather watched as her bob of sandy blond hair receded into the distance, Agnes’s tall frame was soon lost in the thick of the marketplace. Heather continued staring for a moment, then was surprised by the appearance of a middle-aged man before her. She squinted at him. The man from the gallery earlier. What does he want?
The man saw her notice him and stepped forward. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, miss,” he said, holding a small hat in both hands. “My business demands I leave town now, and I won’t be able to tell your employer of my decision.” He swallowed nervously. “Can I trust you to take my decision to her?”
Heather cautiously nodded. “I can deliver your decision. I take it you’d like to buy the painting? And perhaps support our patronage program?”
The man cringed. “I’m afraid not, miss,” he said. He wrung the rim of the hat. “My answer is no.”
Heather looked hurt. “But you seemed to like the painting very much,” she said, wounded. “Why not?”
The man looked down. “The painting is lovely, you see, but that’s not the problem.” He sighed. “It’s the price tag,” he said. “I can’t justify throwing money to support an artist beyond their actual production.”
Heather nodded knowingly. “I understand, sir,” she said. “Why pay for more than you get in return?”
The man nodded eagerly. “You do understand,” he said. “So you’ll deliver my word?”
Heather looked to the side. “I suppose I could, but I have a quick question for you.” She smiled innocently. “How did you get a start in–it was investing, right?”
The man nodded. “Yes, investing. I took some funds and put them–”
“I’m sorry,” interrupted Heather. “What funds? You had funds before you started?”
“Well, my start-up,” said the man. “A bestowment from my father.”
“So your father died, and you inherited his estate?” asked Heather, her voice curious.
“Well, no,” said the man, his brow furrowed and his eyes uncertain. “It was a gift on my coming of age.”
Heather donned a look of revelation. “Oh! Now I get it,” she said. “So, you had some help from someone who had money so you could make your own success.”
“I suppose,” said the man frowning. “But–”
“So you do understand the value of investing in an artist–it’s what will help them make new success.” Heather smiled and folded her arms.
The man frowned. “That’s one way of seeing it, I suppose,” he said, “but–”
“Can you explain to me how there’s another way of seeing it?” asked Heather. “Because I’m struggling to understand.”
The man fell silent for a second. “I suppose I’ll take the painting, then,” he said, resigned.
“And investing in our patron program?” asked Heather, her eyebrows raised.
The man sighed. “And investing,” he said. “How much do I owe?”
Heather began performing math operations in her head. Price of the painting . . . respectful investment . . . something for me . . .
“All together,” said Heather, businesslike, “it’s gonna come to twelve gold.”
The man nodded. He didn’t even make a face! I coulda gone higher. Damnit.
“That’s twelve,” said the man, dumping a stack of gold coins into her outstretched hands. “Send the painting to this address,” he added, handing Heather a neatly printed card. Gordon Redwine, Investor, Highglen #9, Redwine Investments, she read. Highglen! I definitely coulda gone higher.
“It should be there by week’s end,” said Heather. “Thank you for your business.”
“Sure,” said the man absently. He took a few steps away, then turned. “You know, if I weren’t in a huge rush, I’d–”
But he stopped, blinking. Heather was already gone.
—
The following morning, Heather carried a small but heavy envelope through town, headed right for work. It made her nervous to carry money that was intended for someone else. She took note of her surroundings as she went and hurried on.
She soon arrived at the gallery. She knocked twice and opened the door. Sandy was behind the counter. “G’mornin’!” Heather said.
“Morning,” said Sandy, distracted.
“What’s wrong?” asked Heather, holding the envelope behind her back.
Sandy looked her and shrugged. “Bad feeling,” she said. “I don’t think that guy from yesterday is coming back.”
Heather smiled. “Actually, about that . . .” She paused for effect. Once Sandy was paying attention, she continued. “I ran into him last night. He said he had to leave town, but he wanted the painting.” She held out the envelope, the coins clinking gently. “His card is inside.”
Sandy’s eyes went wide. “Did he?” she said, her mind somewhere else. She took the envelope and opened it. “This is too much,” she said, shaking her head.
“I got him to agree to the patronage program,” said Heather proudly.
Sandy blinked at her a few times. “You talked him into it?” She narrowed her eyes. “You did that for me?”
Heather looked surprised. “What do you mean?”
Sandy gestured with her hands. “You don’t get anything for him signing on. So you did it for me?”
Heather thought of the three gold she had left behind in her room and smiled. “I did it for you.”
Sandy smiled and began to pace the room. “We could bring on a new artist with this,” she said. “I want to go talk to that sculptor out in Midford. The one with the kind of abstract shapes? I think the city is ready for her.”
Heather watched Sandy, smiling. I did this, she thought. I could never tell her how, but she’s happy because of me. Sandy was standing in front of a painting and talking mostly to herself about the value of a bottom-up approach to art, about how it includes the common people, about how preserving ordinary beauty matters. She only talks like this when she’s happy, Heather thought proudly. What a change from a few minutes ago.
Sandy continued to wax poetic about the art trade, and Heather set to work opening the shop. She chose the paintings written down by Sandy and hung them in the noted places using a wooden stepladder. She wiped the counter in big, looping spirals. She propped the front door open and stood behind the counter. Sandy was still chattering to herself contentedly when a guest arrived.
“You open?” came a casual male voice from the doorway.
Sandy stopped and turned. “We’re open, yes,” she called. “Please come in!”
A young halfling man in a series of black garments, the edges of which were difficult to discern, walked confidently into the gallery. His short, curly hair hung around his face. “Am I in the right place?” he asked. “I’m looking for The Gallery of the People. Is this it?”
“That’s us!” cried Sandy. “Please, let me show you around. I’m the owner, Sandy. And you are?”
“Mortimer Shadetree,” he said easily. “You can call me Morty.”
“Oh, I’ll use Mr. Shadetree if you don’t mind,” said Sandy. “I address our customers with the utmost in respect.”
Morty smiled as if surprised. “What a fine establishment,” he said, his voice smooth. “Now tell me, what’s the finest piece you have?”
Sandy glanced at Heather, her eyebrows raised. Heather looked to the man. Nice clothes. Clean. Wants the best. He’s got money. She pointed to the painting on the far wall quickly, immediately withdrawing her hand behind the counter.
“That would have to be this painting,” said Sandy, leading Morty to it. “It’s a classic sea scene, with the twist that this was actually painted in the Catch District. The painter, a fisherman himself, found beauty in the surroundings of his humble work, and he wanted to show with this piece that the simple beauties are perhaps the most worth appreciating.”
“Stunning,” said Morty. “Absolutely stunning. You can nearly smell the fish, and yet it looks pristine. I love it.”
“Shall I show you the rest?” Sandy asked. She glanced back to Heather. Sandy shook her head no for a brief moment, then yes for a moment, her eyebrows raised. Heather nodded fiercely. Sandy smiled. “Or is your heart set on this one?”
Morty demonstratively looked up and down the wall of the gallery. “No sleight to your other work,” he said gently, “but yes, I believe my heart is set.” He looked longingly back at the seascape. “How much for it?” he asked, his voice suddenly intense.
Sandy drew her hands together. “This painting comes at a price of eight gold, five silver,” she said. “It may be from an amateur artist, but for nine gold, we can help to nurture that artist.”
Morty frowned. “Just the painting, please.”
“Very well,” said Sandy. “The patronage program does a lot of good, but I understand.”
Morty reached into his cloak and withdrew a black coinpurse. He reached in and counted out stacks of gold and silver coins on the counter. “There you are. May I store my painting here until tomorrow, when I depart town?”
Sandy thought for a moment and nodded. “I don’t see why not.”
“If it wouldn’t be a trouble, I was hoping I could store some valuables here as well,” said Morty.
Heather’s ears perked up. She made a point to not appear to be paying attention to the exchange, instead wiping the counter in endless spirals.
“I suppose we could,” said Sandy.
A pressure that had been building in Heather snapped. “The last time we gave safe storage to a customer, we charged a fee,” she said as if to be of help. “Remember?”
Sandy cocked an eyebrow, then vigorously nodded. “Of course. The safe storage fee. I had almost forgotten. One gold.” She walked a ways and gestured to the backroom. “It’s very secure.”
“If it’s secure to you,” said Morty, “it’s not secure to me. Unless I can have a key to the backroom for my peace of mind.”
Sandy looked up, thinking. Heather tried desperately to get her attention without Morty noticing, but nothing was both noticeable to Sandy and imperceptible to Morty. She watched helplessly.
“I guess you could borrow the spare key,” said Sandy. “Heather, could you bring it here?”
Heather opened the desk drawer and removed both the backroom key and a small key-shaped sculpture that Sandy had received as a gift from a sculptor whose work she had sold. She brought both, one in each hand to Sandy.
“Please be careful with this key, sir,” said Heather firmly. “I can’t think what would happen if you lost it,” she added, looking at Sandy.
Sandy looked confused, then shrugged. Heather closed her eyes, then raised the real key up to Morty. “There you are, sir,” she said.
Morty smiled and slipped the key into a pocket in his cloak, handing her a gold coin. “See you tomorrow,” he said. “Thanks for the work you do for those artists.”
Sandy smiled back. “Thank you. We appreciate your business.”
As soon as Morty was gone, Sandy turned and glared at Heather. “What’s gotten into you?” she demanded. “You acting like a little spy all of a sudden! I mean, I’m glad you made us some money, but I don’t know what to make of you.”
“Why did he want your key, Sandy?” asked Heather.
“You know, if you’re going to say it like that, I’d prefer ‘Miss Sandy’ after all,” Sandy replied.
“To come and get it in the middle of the night?” asked Heather. “And have unsupervised access to the whole shop?”
Sandy put a foot down firmly. “And why shouldn’t we trust him? He was a paying customer.”
“Sandy, just listen to me,” said Heather, starting to get worked up. “Don’t leave anything important in here tonight.”
Sandy looked away. “Finish the shift and go home, Blossom,” she said.
Heather’s shoulder slumped. She headed back out to the counter and stared miserably at the door, waiting for someone to come and distract her.
—
Heather scowled as she left the gallery that evening. The entire shift had been miserably tense. I hate when I can tell it’s no use arguing, she thought. I like being able to fix things. Talk them out. Smooth over things. She glanced around the streets. It was unusually deserted tonight. Hopefully she remembers being happy by tomorrow.
She wound through the streets, continually changing her focus from the ground in front of her to the people around her. She came to a crossroads and stopped for a minute, trying to gather her wits. I’m not paying attention, she thought. Anything could happen to me right now. I need to pay attention.
She trudged off down another road and forced herself to focus. Nameless faces passed by, disappearing into a mess of unintelligible shapes she couldn’t make sense of. Then, a familiar face. She stopped.
“Hey, Agnes,” she said.
“Oh, Blossom, good to see you,” said Agnes easily. “Hey, I was hoping I’d run into you.”
Heather felt a thrill rush through her. You were? Why?
“Uh, why?” asked Heather, surprised.
“You’re ready to try your lockpicking skills?” asked Agnes quietly. “I found one for you.”
Heather smiled and nodded. “Yeah,” she said eagerly.
“Good,” said Agnes. She brushed a strand of hair out of her face. It fell again and came to rest on her elven cheekbones. “Follow me,” she said, heading back the opposite direction she had come. Heather followed closely behind.
Agnes led them through town to an industrial block. She came to a machine shop and stopped. “There’s a lockbox with a bunch of garbage in there,” said Agnes. “Back room. That’s what the kid who tipped me off said, anyways. But there’s also a gold bar in the lockbox.” Her eyes flashed in the low light.
Heather nodded. Sneak in, pick the lock, find the bar, sneak out. Should be simple enough.
“Okay,” said Agnes. “It looks abandoned. Door is around the side. If you hear an owl, get outta there.”
Heather nodded again, all business now. She lowered into a crouch and made her way across the lawn of the building, clung to the building as it turned, and slipped towards the door Agnes had identified. She pulled the door. It didn’t move more than an inch–a huge padlock bolted it to the frame.
Heather laughed quietly to herself. I’ve never worked on something like this, she thought. Either Agnes thinks too much of me, or she’s trying to get me into trouble. Nevertheless. She pulled out her tension bar and probes and sat to work. “Catch ‘em,” she muttered, pushing five–no, six tumblers into place. Just to be safe . . . She searched by feel for a seventh tumbler and found it a skipped row behind the sixth. Those tricky bastards, she thought. “Under the lever,” she breathed, dragging the probe along the inside edge of the lock to ensure all the tumblers were set. “Then push,” she whispered, using her whole shoulder to twist the tension bar. The lock struggled for a second, then fell open.
Sneak in almost accomplished, she thought. She crept down the wide hallway of the building and towards the far back wall. A door on the back had another large padlock on it.
Damnit, Agnes! she thought. How many locks am I gonna have to bust? I’m not even to the lockbox. She approached the lock. It looked very similar to the one outside, but was several inches smaller. She tried to fit the tension bar inside, but it was too big for the keyhole. Fuck. I need smaller tools. Where the hell am I gonna get smaller tools? She glanced around, spying dozens of small pieces of metal on the countertops. Right, machine shop, she thought. Someone must be looking out for me. She held up a few short, thin pieces of metal in the near-darkness. It might work, she thought. Time to find out.
She slowly fed the flatter of the pieces of metal into the keyhole. Then, delicately, she fed a relatively thick wire into the lock. “Catch ‘em,” she said, doing so with some difficult as the wire was not as rigid as the probes she was used to. “Under the lever,” she said, pushing the wire hard up along the tumblers. “Then push,” she said, wrenching the thin piece of metal counterclockwise. The lock popped open, but the metal broke off inside the lock. At least that happened with it already open.
She pushed the door open. Inside were shelves with plans and diagrams, boxes of spare paper stacked in a corner. She found a lockbox on a table in the back corner. There was a sizable lock built into the lockbox itself. No way of knowing how far back the tumblers go, she thought. Gods alive, I practiced on a simple door lock for a while and I thought I was a safecracker? What have I gotten into?
She took her tools and fed them carefully into the lock. They seemed to fit. So far, so good. She began testing the tumblers. I think I can take my time, she thought. Might as well do it right. She counted eight tumblers and checked a final time. Six, seven, eight . . . eight. No, wait . . . nine! she thought, pushing down a tumbler along the bottom. Shit, I didn’t even know they could do that. “Catch ‘em,” she whispered, pressing each of the nine tumblers. “Under the lever,” she said a bit louder, breathing more heavily as she applied pressure to the tumblers. “Then push,” she said, her breath rushing out. The lockbox’s lid popped open.
By feel, she searched the box. Papers, she thought, bottles of something–maybe ink? Her hand fumbled against something heavy. Gold? she thought happily. She wrapped her hand around the large ingot and pulled it from the box. It was heavy–it seemed to be a double-sized ingot. It glinted lightly in the dark.
She made her way back through the machine shop, carrying the ingot in her arms like a baby. She reached the front door when she heard a sound that made her freeze: an owl hooting in the darkness.
She dropped to the ground and crawled quickly away from the building across the lawn. She dragged the bar with her as she went, staying as quiet as she could. She had made it to the edge of the yard and was considering how best to join up with the road when she heard laughter. It sounded like Agnes. The hoot came again, but cut short by laughter this time. Heather cautiously approached Agnes. “Why aren’t you running?” she whispered.
Agnes fell on the ground laughing at Heather’s concerned expression. “Silly, there’s nothing wrong,” she said. “I just wanted to see you freak out.” She cracked up again.
Heather felt the adrenaline leaving her system. “Nice,” she said. “I got it!”
Agnes nodded approvingly. “You did,” she said, “and that means you got past both locks.”
“All three locks,” corrected Heather.
“Three?” said Agnes, shocked. “No, one at the door, and the lockbox.”
“And the one on the door into the room with the lockbox,” said Heather. “Three.”
Agnes whistled. “Hot damn, girl. Good for you.” She smiled, then held out her hand.
Heather looked at the hand curiously. “What?” she asked.
“My finder’s fee,” said Agnes simply. “I found you that score. Least you could do is cut me in.”
Heather looked down at the gold bar for a moment. It is a pretty big score, she thought. Fine. “How much?” asked Heather.
“Well, I’m not a greedy asshole,” said Agnes. “Only a gold.”
Heather considered this and nodded. She reached into a coinpurse hidden under her skirt and brought out a gold piece. “Thanks for your help, Agnes.”
“You got it, sister,” said Agnes.
Something felt suddenly wrong to Heather. Sister? she thought. Does she think of me as a sister?
“Hey, I gotta go,” said Agnes. “But good work. I’ve taught you well.” She stuck a tongue playfully out at Heather.
“Yeah,” said Heather, distracted. She looked hard at Agnes. “I guess you have.” Agnes turned and left, and Heather stood for a while feeling the weight of the ingot pulling her down. Gotta get that taken care of, she thought. Can’t be walking around with four pounds of pure gold on me.
And so she headed home, her thoughts swirling so fiercely that she barely remembered that she may not have a job in the morning.
—
Heather arrived at the gallery a few minutes early. She stood away from the door, silently staring at it. Am I welcome back? she thought. How do I keep wearing out my welcome? The door was splintered at the handle, the lock on the ground. She steeled herself, knocked twice, and poked her head in.
The place was a mess. Every painting and sculpture in the main room was gone. Heather shook her head. Morty, she thought. I told her. She picked her way over spilled displays to the backroom. Sandy was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a series of pencil sketches arranged around her.
“Hey, Miss Sandy,” said Heather gently.
Sandy looked up and smiled sadly. “Hey, Blossom.” She pointed to the sketches. “These are all that’s left,” she said, her voice flat. “They got everything else.”
Heather nodded, glancing around the now-empty room. “I’m sorry, Miss Sandy,” she nearly whispered.
“We have to close for a while,” said Sandy absently. “Maybe forever.” She traced her finger along a sketch, following its lines. “I can’t keep you.”
Heather sighed. “If you had listened to me–” she started.
“Don’t!” said Sandy. “It wasn’t him anyway. They broke the lock. Why would he need to break in if he had the key?”
“Because it’s a cover,” said Heather impatiently. “That way he can come back and–”
“Come back and what?” asked Morty, stepping into the room. “It’s a shame you think so poorly of me, little one,” he said to Heather. “What’s happened here?” he asked Sandy.
“We’ve been robbed,” said Sandy. “They took everything.”
“All of my valuables?!” he cried, clapping a hand to his forehead. “You said it was secure!”
“It was secure,” said Sandy feebly, “but they broke the lock.”
“That’s all it took?” thundered Morty. “A little brute force? And you think that’s secure?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Sandy. “I’m so sorry.”
Morty glared at her. “I demand restitution. For my stolen things, and for my painting.”
“But sir,” began Sandy, “I have nothing to give. They took everything.”
“They didn’t take the building,” observed Morty. “I should take control of it until you can repay me.”
“But sir,” Sandy said again, “then I would have no way of rebuilding my business.”
“Hardly my concern,” said Morty sharply. “What do you expect me to do without my priceless items?”
Sandy deflated. “Very well,” she said. “I will give you the deed–until I can repay you.”
“Until you can repay me,” repeated Morty. “Then it will be yours again. Now where is this deed?”
Sandy frowned. “It’s in my home, for safekeeping.”
“This all could have been avoided if my things had received such care,” he snapped. “Take me there now. You clearly have no other business here.”
Sandy stood slowly and walked to the door by Morty. He waved her on, and she walked into the front room.
“Be careful what you say about people, brat,” Morty said to Heather. “You never know who could help you.”
Heather blinked at the man and said nothing.
“You best get going,” said Morty. “Ain’t nothing for you here.”
Heather nodded. Bastard, she thought. He worked us for maybe ten minutes and got everything Sandy owns. She eyed him closely. He looked pretty ordinary apart from his elaborate garb. What does he mean, “help?”
She cut past Morty, giving him a wide berth. “Good day, Mr. Mortimer,” she said sweetly. He laughed behind her as she left the gallery.
Heather walked through the streets to the busy marketplace. She walked a now-familiar path past the trade goods, around the tapestries, and to the baker’s section of the food vendors. A few minutes later, she carried two seed bread rolls to a quiet neighborhood. Should be around here, she thought, scanning the neighborhood. He said it was the west end–oh, that looks like it. She headed quickly for a partially-built house.
Her father waved at her as she arrived. He was atop a ladder; he had just finished hammering nails that connected the roof to the outer beams. He climbed down the ladder slowly. He’s slowing down, Heather thought sadly. He used to be up and down that ladder like it was nothing. She put on a smile as he approached.
“Heather,” he said. “So good to see you. And with your usual seed bread, I see.”
“It’s not usual for me,” said Heather. “I just get them when I come to see you.”
“Well, that’s very sweet,” he said, taking a bite. “I’ve come to love these things, but I don’t know whether that’s from the taste or because they mean I get to see you.”
“Aww, Dad,” protested Heather. “I’m sixteen–you can’t be all corny like that anymore.”
“Nonsense,” said Cedric. “I will be corny until the day I die. Mark my words.”
“You know, I believe you,” said Heather playfully. “I can see you now, on your deathbed: ‘Can someone give me another blanket?’” she said in a mimic of her father’s voice. “‘This cold will be the death of me.’”
“Hey, that’s pretty good,” said her father. “You mind if I use that?”
“Shut up, Dad,” said Heather. “You’re not allowed to die.”
Cedric laughed and put a hand on Heather’s shoulder. He seemed suddenly serious. “Sweetheart, I know I haven’t always been able to protect you or even provide for you,” he said, his voice small. “I wish that could be different.” He looked down and wiped his eyes. “But it doesn’t have to be. You’re so darn good at taking care of yourself, I just can’t believe it. It’s scary for me to die, but one day, I will, and I want you to remember that you’ll be okay. Because you can take care of yourself.”
“Dad, stop,” insisted Heather. “Don’t talk like that.”
“No, sweetie, it’s important. I’m not dying any time soon, but you can’t hide from things,” he said. “The harder you try to hide something, the harder it gets to hold it in, and then eventually, it’s going to explode.” His voice was quiet and insistent. “Don’t be like me and your mother, sweetheart. Find your own way.”
Heather frowned. “What’s wrong with your way?”
“Oh, child, the fact that you don’t see it yet means you’re not ready for it.” Cedric looked over to the boss, who waved him over. “Look, I have to go, but just trust me–you want to do it your own way.” He looked back to Heather. “Can you trust me?”
Heather nodded. “I can trust you,” she said.
“See you soon,” said Cedric. “Don’t be a stranger, now.”
“See you soon,” agreed Heather. “You’ll still be in the neighborhood for a few days?”
Cedric nodded. “Or you could come home,” he said gently.
“Or I could see you here soon,” she said firmly.
Cedric nodded again. “Sounds good, sweetie.”
“Bye, Dad,” she said, turning. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” he said, turning away.
She began to walk away, her head swirling. What does Dad think is wrong with what he does? Who is Morty really? What am I going to do for a cover job? Where am I going to break that gold bar into coins? How is Agnes? She stopped walking. One thing at a time, Heather. Break the bar. That’s the most pressing thing. Break it up, spread out the money. Less risk. She considered the topics swirling in her head. Though I seem to be pretty interested in risk right now. Stop! Focus. The bar.
And as Heather searched the city for a shop that would neither ask too many questions nor take too much off the top, she sensed something strange. More of what bothers me, day to day anyway, is not about the job. It’s about the people in my life. She turned this way and that, no destination in mind. That means I’ve got the job down. It’s just people I need to figure out.
You can read the next chapter here!
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