Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
Nine crouched down behind the stacked fish crates at the bustling market. Dead fish always look so surprised, she thought. Surprised to be dead? Surprised to be caught? Well, no one would surprise Nine, anyway. She had no intention of being caught, or of dying, thank you very much. Even though she ran the risk of both every day of her life.
Nine brushed her fingertips against the empty satchel slung across her body. It wouldn’t be empty for long.
Focus.
She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, then opened them again. Just like a cat: sighting her prey, stalking it quietly, pouncing at the right moment. But instead of bringing a mouse back to her owner, Nine was after a different type of gift.
She was falling out of favor with Pockets, the old gang-master. She needed to prove herself to him. Prove she was worth the roof over her head and the pathetic amount of food the old devil gave her each day. And this was her opportunity.
Everyone was busy at the market, moving and chatting. It was the perfect place for a pounce. Barrows rattled, traders shouted, wagons rolled. A shawl-wrapped fishwife was at the far end of her stall, yelling to the crowd about the Catch of the Day, which, as far as Nine was concerned, was just an extra-large, extra-surprised-looking fish. Nine ducked down behind the crates and peered around. A horse and cart clattered over the cobbles, obscuring her view. When it passed, she smiled.
Her prey. A young lady stood with her back to Nine. She guessed, by her height and build, that the lady was only a few years older than herself, but she was beautifully dressed. She had a puffed-out scarlet dress and, more importantly, a fancy, beaded handbag.
Nine’s senses were on alert. Her muscles tensed. She moved into position, clenched her fists, stretched her fingers—her pre-pounce ritual.
The scarlet lady was heading for the fabric shop across the street. Perfect. When she went to open the door—that moment of distraction—Nine would crash into her and snatch the bag.
She was on in three...
Oh, she loved the thrill.
Two...
Focus on the prey.
One...
The young lady was nearly at the door....
Go! Nine sprinted over the cobbles, aiming for her prize—
THWACK. Nine ran straight into her, clasped the bag—
The shopkeeper opened the door right at that moment, and his eyes fell on Nine and her outstretched hand. No! This was not good. Nine released the handbag. This was definitely not good. The scarlet-dress lady shrieked and stumbled backward.
With a flash of panic, Nine dashed back toward the fish baskets. She could duck and weave through the crates and—
“HEY!”
Nine gasped as two large hands slammed down on her shoulders.
“I saw that, missy. What’s your game?” growled the shopkeeper in a deep voice.
“It’s called ‘catch,’” said Nine. Then she twisted around, grabbed the Catch of the Day, and threw it at his face. The shopkeeper staggered backward, looking even more surprised than the fish. Nine shoved over the piled-up fish crates as hard as she could—dead fish oozing like spilled guts across the street—and the shopkeeper crashed into the stall. Nine took a moment to appreciate the fishwife pounding him with a prize lobster, then ran through the streets, dodging people, horses, the huge steaming piles of—
Squelch. Nine stopped, looked down at her filth-caked shoe, and wrinkled her nose.
“Oi!” Looking back, she saw the lobster-beaten shopkeeper running toward her. She huffed, then bolted as fast as she could through the market. She needed to disappear—to find protective walls to hide behind until he gave up the chase. Nine darted past shop windows and houses, longing for a glimpse of the one place she could go, the one place where she would always be safe.
Ah! And there it was! Her muscles relaxed just a little. The tall, somewhat derelict building was the safest place in the world. Two of its windows were now boarded up, roof tiles were missing, but its faded, peeling blue door was ajar and waiting.
Nine quickly glanced over her shoulder, and saw the shopkeeper still pushing past people and dodging stray dogs. A tiny smile escaped her, and Nine pushed open the door and slipped inside the library. The hinge squeaked as she closed the door behind her.
Shhh. She mustn’t be heard. Mustn’t be seen. While she was here she would creep in, snatch a book, and leave unnoticed. It was good practice, after all.
A damp, musty smell hung in the air. A handful of ladies and gentlemen were dotted around the silent room, flicking through books and magazines, their backs toward her. No sign of the librarian. So far, so good.
Nine stepped forward. A floorboard creaked. She held her breath. Nothing.
She crept toward her favorite, but half-empty, shelf: mystery tales. Stories where answers were hidden and secrets unraveled and where, perhaps, for a moment, anything was possible. She trailed her fingertips across the soft, dark binding of the books as she passed.
She loved books. One of the older thieflings had taught her to read before he’d flown the Nest. He was the only one in the Nest who had treated Nine as a person, rather than the muck now smeared on her shoe. Nine was so grateful. Inside every book was a world: a world to which she could escape.
Her fingers stopped at a brown spine with gold lettering. The Mystery of Wolven Moor by Horatio Piddlewick. She stretched her fingers around the book, eased it out gently, silently, and—
“Caught you,” whispered a man’s voice in her ear.
Nine’s heart leaped into her mouth, her fingers fumbled at the book, and it fell toward the floor. A hand shot out and caught it.
Nine put her hands on her hips and whirled around to face a ginger-haired librarian, who stood tall and proud. “What?! No! I was silent as the grave, Mr. Downes!”
The librarian’s eyes twinkled joyously behind his horn-rimmed spectacles as he waggled a finger. “Ah, the floorboard creaked.” Nine rolled her eyes as Mr. Downes reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notebook. He tucked the library book under his arm and turned to a heavily marked page in the notebook. “I believe the score is... yes, twelve points to me, five to you.” He beamed at Nine, then frowned suddenly and wrinkled his nose. “What is that smell?”
Nine tucked her filth-caked shoe behind her other leg. “Can’t smell anything.”
“Hmmm,” said Mr. Downes, twisting his mouth to one side. He untucked the book and glanced at the cover. “The Mystery of Wolven Moor?”
“I’ve read it three times already. You really need to get some new books.”
The joyful look in the librarian’s eyes faded away and worry lined his face. “You know the library cannot buy new books. There’s not even enough to repair the building. It’s a miracle we’re still open!”
“Well, then,” said Nine quietly, snatching the book back and marching for the front door. “This one will have to do.”
“Nine,” hissed Mr. Downes as he scurried along beside her, “must I keep reminding you? Without a guardian’s signature and a disclosed address, you cannot have an account, and if you do not have an account, you are not permitted to borrow books from this library.”
“It’s for a friend.”
“And this friend, I presume, also does not have an account and is not permitted to—”
Nine stopped just before she reached the front door. “You going to let me take it or not?”
Mr. Downes looked at Nine and raised a gingery eyebrow. “One week.”
Nine tucked the book into her satchel, gave the librarian a wink, and walked out the door, smiling at the noisy, exasperated sigh from Mr. Downes as she left.
