Page 24 of Princess of Thieves

“Now,” Guy says, shifting gears, his voice softening, “it’s time to move on to today’s main event—the award for our archery tournament champion. But before we get to that, there’s someone I’d like to acknowledge. Someone who has stood by myside through thick and thin, who has been my greatest support, my inspiration. The beautiful Maren de Mornay, myfiancée.”

I freeze. The world seems to tilt off balance.

Did he just say...fiancée?

My breath catches in my throat as I try to process it.Fiancée.I’d assumed the fiancée was someone else, some faceless woman out of town, a ghost in his mansion soon to return.

But no. It was me. It’s probably always been me. That’s his plan: not to rescue me.

To trap me.

But there’s no time to react—Guy is already gesturing for me to stand and present the bouquet. My legs feel like they’re moving through quicksand as someone plops the flowers into my hands and ushers me towards Guy, towards the spotlight.

And what am I going to do, drop them and sprint away?

No, say the deputies fringing the outside, adjusting their belts heavy with the weight of guns and nightsticks.No you will not.

Like an automaton, I approach the winner, the same humble archer I’d noticed earlier—ball cap, worn shirt, scraggly beard. He watches me with a steady, unpretentious gaze.

As I hand him the bouquet, our eyes meet, and for a split second, the world feels still. There’s something calming in his eyes, something different, refreshing, compared to all the stuffiness and old money around us.

Then it hits me—a wave of dizziness, sudden and disorienting. My vision blurs, and I sway on my feet, grabbing the edge of the podium for balance.

Guy is at my side immediately, muttering something under his breath. “Maren? Are you all right?” This close, his voice is more annoyed than concerned. Like I’m inconveniencing him.

But before he can say more, the archer steps forward, his voice firm yet kind. “Give the lady some space,” he drawls. “Hot day out here,” he adds, to me. “Take yer time.”

“I...thank you,” I manage, and somehow whisper something about needing air. Guy steps back, clearly irritated, but unwilling to make a scene, and smiles to the crowd as I retreat from the tent.

The world wheels around me, spinning on its axis with stars exploding in my vision as I slip out of the tent.

The fresh air hits me like a second wind.

I can’t do this anymore. I need to get out—now.

In six swift steps I get away from the shadow of the tent, grass ticking against my ankles as I wobble forward on my wedges. The parking lot isn’t far—across the stretch of field now studded with arrows, guarded only by the speared forms of spent targets—and I’m there before I can even catch my breath.

The sun beats down on me like it’s trying to melt me into the cracked dry mud underneath me. I need something easy, an old model and a simple make, something without any newfangled security features. No keyless entry or remote starter, none of that bullshit. That’s the thing about old cars—they kept it so simple. People act like you’re some sort of genius when you can diagnose something built before 1990, but I’d rather contend with this bird’s nest of wires and switches than some stupid onboard computer any day.

Simple’s what I need. Because I’m going to steal a car.

I sense it before I register it—wide body, square corners, chrome shining in the sun. A Dodge Dart, late ‘60s, some red-faced old guy’s collector’s item taken out for the big holiday, shining like a big candy apple here in the impromptu parking lot.

I scramble over to the door and give it a tug.

And wouldn’t you know it, but he left the sucker unlocked. I hate to victim-blame, but you might deserve to get your car stolen if you’re dumb enough to do that.

Sweat drips down my back, sticking my dress to my skin as I crouch inside the driver’s side footwell. The cicadas are loud—too loud—but I need them to be.

I shove my hair out of my eyes and wedge myself under the dashboard, prying open the panel with a single tug. I feel around for the wires, half-blind, listening for any sound that doesn’t belong—the snap of a twig, the crunch of gravel. The woods around me feel too quiet. The sounds of festival-goers are a distant buzz, a world away from the panicked girl trying to hotwire an engine with her heart in her throat.

I close my eyes, operating by instinct more than sight, and...

There. My fingers brush the bundle of wires, and I pull them down, hands shaking more than I want them to. Two wires. One for the fuel, one for the spark.

Old Man MacAllister didn’t exactly teach me how to hotwire a car—not in so many words—but he taught me what I need to know to do it. You’ve got an on switch that powers up all the key circuits, like the fuel pump and the spark ignition system, and another switch that gets the engine turning. Once the engine’s going—and as long as everything’s working right—it’llkeepgoing as long as it has fuel and power for the spark system. Just tie the main power circuit on, touch the start wires together, and...bam.

Hopefully.

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