Page 8 of The Orc's Thief
“No, we’ll get introuble!” another hisses back.
The two girls are whispering with their heads close together. They must think we can’t hear them. Or perhaps their parents can’t, as neither of them reacts. I tune out the merchant’s heavy breathing and focus on the girls’ words instead.
“But what if it wasn’t a cat we heard? I don’t want a thief to come into my room at night.”
I clear my throat. “Has anyone reported any unusual sounds?” I ask the merchant. “Perhaps a servant who might have visited the attic recently?”
The man shakes his head. “No, there’s nothing of use up there, apart from storage for some old clothes and furniture. Bits and bobs, you know how it is.”
I don’t, actually. I grew up in an underground palace without an attic, but there’s no use explaining that. I hum in agreement anyway and I glance over my shoulder again. The older girl stares up at me, chin lifted. I smother a grin—she’s feisty, that one.
Then I shift my gaze to her sister. “Did you notice anything strange, young lady?”
The mother halts so abruptly her skirts swish around her ankles. Worry flickers across her face. But then she, too, notices her daughter’s guilty expression. She steps forward and crouches in front of the little girl.
“Do you know something about this?” she demands. “If you heard something, you have to tell us right now.”
The girl’s lower lip trembles. Her eyes brim with tears, and then she throws herself into her mother’s arms. The boy sees her sobbing and immediately joins in, face scrunched, tears flowing as he clutches his mother’s neck.
I press my lips together to hold back a laugh and glance at the older girl, who’s glaring daggers at her sister.
“Gods, you’re such ababy. I’m never trusting you with another secret in my life.”
She reminds me so much of Irrin, my sister, sharp-tongued and fiercely protective. A pang of homesickness catches me off guard. I miss them more than I want to admit. And now, with the thieves having stolen their letters, I’ve lost another lifeline to my family.
The ache sharpens into anger, hot and bitter. I glare at the merchant. He straightens and moves to question his daughter.
“Were you playing in the attic?” he demands.
She clenches her hands, shifting on her feet, clearly uneasy but not cowed. She’s not afraid of him. Her worry seems to stem more from guilt than fear. She’s realizing this isn’t just a game anymore.
“We were only playing dress-up with some of Mama’s old clothes,” she admits, her voice small. “There was a scratching noise on the roof, and Ellie thought it might be pigeons, but I told her it must be a cat, because pigeons don’t make that much noise.”
“Cats don’t, either,” I tell her. “They’re very nimble and walk softly. Can you show me the part of the attic where you heard the noise?”
She nods and steps forward, face pale but determined. She climbs the stairs with surprising speed, the rest of us trailing after her.
At the top floor, she points to a hatch door in the ceiling. She demonstrates how she and her sister hooked the ladder in place and climbed up. Watching her, I have to agree with the parents. This isn’t a safe space for children to play, let alone human ones, who aren’t as sturdy as orcs.
The wife glowers at her husband as she watches their daughter, and he flushes again.
“I’ll get a lock for that trapdoor,” he mumbles, pulling her into his side and kissing the top of her head. “First thing tomorrow.”
“See that you do,” she replies, but she hugs him around the waist, too.
It’s an uncharacteristic show of affection for humans, who are usually much more reserved, and it does nothing to settle my need to find my mate. I turn away before they can see the jealousy in my expression and misinterpret it. I don’t want this woman—or the man. But I am jealous of their life, no matter how ugly that thought is. They have a home, a family, and a loving relationship. What more could a person want?
Instead of wallowing in those thoughts, I follow the girls up to the attic. Now that the younger has calmed down, she proves to be a skilled climber as well, which tells me they’ve done this more often than their parents realize. The father climbs up after me, but the mother refuses to let the boy follow and waits downstairs with him.
“Well?” the merchant says to his daughters. “Where were you playing, then?”
“Over here,” the younger answers, weaving around some boxes and a stack of old chairs to avoid dirtying her skirts. “We found this old chest full of pretty dresses.”
I duck my head under the exposed roof beams and make straight for a grimy rooftop window that looks like it hasn’t been opened in years. I nudge the latch, and it creaks open, spilling pale light into the dim attic. We all squint at the sudden change, and the merchant coughs as a cloud of dust and debris trickles down around us.
I pause, listening, then carefully stick my head through the opening. I don’t think the thieves would be skulking on rooftops during the day, but I also don’t want to get stabbed in the eye for startling them. My shoulders bump against the window frame, too broad to fit. I curse softly, then shift around as much as I can. There’s the edge of the roof, and beyond it, the roof of the inn—probably. I can’t be certain, but IthinkI’m facing the right direction.
And there, in the shadow of the gable of the next house, lies a discarded apple core, browned from being left out overnight.
