Page 11 of Savannah Royals
“Kitty-Kat, trust me. Soon you’re gonna be impossible to miss.” He pulled a strand of my inky hair through his fingers and looked at me. “You’realreadynearly impossible to miss.”
That was the first day Paul kissed me.
I was thirteen.
After that day, the game became something else entirely. The game is beingseen. Seen exactly how and when I want. Seen until the pivotal moment when I decide to disappear. All three boys can do parlor tricks and sleight of hand, but I’m the only one who can sweet talk us into the big leagues.
Don’t worry, Mama,I think as I head to my workstation.They’ll still never catch me.
“I almost forgot to tell you.” Ray follows me. “I unloaded something for Paul the other night. Here’s the cut.”
“Golly, that’s a lot of bills.” I furrow my brow as I peek inside the envelope. “What did you move? We haven’t run a job in weeks.”
“Er, just some old odds and ends he had lying around.”
“Really?” I lean against my desk, knowing full well Ray is lying. “Must have been some expensive odds and ends.”
“I reckon he’s been trying to make some extra scratch lately. You only have a few months left at the Academy. Pretty soon, you’ll probably need to clear a space on one of your fingers.” He nods suggestively at my rings.
I raise my eyebrows and rub my thumb over the signet on my right hand. “Paul already gave me a ring.”
He makes a face, looking at me like I’m an idiot.
After a moment, I realize I am.
“Oh!” I glance down at my fingers, specifically the fourth one on my left hand. “Nah. That’s not really Paul’s style. He’s far from the marrying type.”
Ray shrugs and walks away. “You know better than me, I suppose. Pass along the cut, will ya?”
When he returns to the floor, I pull out my latest obsession piece for an afternoon of tinkering. It started as a wild daydream, born from a trip to the pictures with Paul to see Theda Bara inCleopatra.
Spellbound. Captivated. That’s how I felt watching her sashay about the elaborate set, dripping in gemstones from head to toe, turning the eye of every person in the theater, man and woman alike.
The idea for a multilayered gold, obsidian, and emerald collar showpiece percolated for nearly a year before I began crafting it with my fingers. Inspiration for a matching cobra statement ring struck soon after, an ode to the legend of Cleopatra’s grief-stricken suicide by snakebite after the death of her lover, Mark Antony.
The utter deliciousness of an unscheduled afternoon stretches before me, endless time to indulge my wildest artistic fantasies. It’s exceedingly rare to not have a project for either Ray or Paul take center stage on my desk, but our only upcoming job is the one at Astor Manor. And I can hardly make a forgery of the solid gold ballerina figurine we’re after.
TitledThe Dancer, the statuette is an Astor family treasure dating to the Italian Renaissance. As reclusive as it is renowned, we have only one grainy black-and-white film negative of the figurine atop a fireplace mantel somewhere in the manor. Paul got his hands on the photograph from abayou contractor who had recently done interior work at the estate, but the rest of our information is sparse at best.
There are six fireplaces throughout the mansion, not including the massive hearth in the kitchen. Six possible locations the ballerina could be, the most challenging of which is the flue emptying into the master bedroom. All of this assumes, of course,The Dancerhasn’t been moved since Paul’s man captured the photograph several weeks ago.
It’s a big job, the biggest we’ve ever undertaken, but we didn’t earn our reputation by playing it safe. We’ve taken calculated risks before and always cashed them in for sizable payouts. And this would be a huge payout, one that could keep us living in high cotton for a lifetime. Not to mention the prestige from pulling off a heist against the Astor family. Some things, someinstitutions, are considered sacred. Untouchable.
But our mission has always been to prove nothing is untouchable. Not for us.
CHAPTER THREE
IreturntotheAcademy in the evening and sit quietly through dinner with Mellie. Our nightly routine is enduring—she chatters, I chew. When we walk back to our room, I notice, with mild amusement, my morning gown is no longer on the floor. Much like her mindless yammering, Mellie’s predictability knows no bounds.
We’re preparing for bed—me quiet, Mellie loud—when a familiar tapping begins at the window. One glance at my roommate reveals she heard it too. She has ears like a bat, this farmgirl.
“Nuh-uh, no way.” Mellie gives me a cross look, then strides to the window as a second shower of pebbles hits the glass. She yanks the frame up and leans out to hiss, “She’s not here. Go away!”
I rush across the room and stick my head out the window. Paul’s grinning face looks up at me. I shove Mellie aside, hoping she didn’t see him clearly. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re not going to come over.” He’s matter-of-fact.
“No. I’m not.”
