She carefully shifted her weight to keep her feet from going numb, mindful of the leather bag she carried on her back. The tree bark was slick from the mist, and Iris had just discovered she wasn’t keen on heights, or scaling trees in the dark. But this was the only way to gain access to the museum without setting off the alarm. Or so Sarah Prindle had said, and she had taken two full days to come up with a watertight plan.
Iris frowned and felt the mask stick to her face. She resisted the temptation to scratch her nose through the damp fabric and sighed.
She had been waiting in this oak tree, staring at the back wall of the museum and its third story window, for what felt like an hour now. Sarah and Attie had been waiting for much longer within, entering the museum as unassuming visitors and then concealing themselves in the lavatory before the doors magically locked at dusk. There they would hide until midnight, when the two of them would catch the night guard by surprise on his security rounds. Only then would Attie be able to open the window for Iris to climb through.
“The museum is an enchanted building,” Sarah had said at breakfast that morning, when the three girls had gathered to solidify their plan. “Once the doors are locked and bolted at nightfall, there is no opening them without setting off a horrendous alarm.”
“So how do we do this?” Iris set down her toast, stomach churning. “Is it even possible?”
“It’s possible, thanks to a window that was added to the third floor a few decades ago,” Sarah explained. “One of the museum’s best-kept secrets is that that window isn’t enchanted like the original windows and doors are. As long as we don’t trigger the alarm, it will be our way out.”
“How did you discover this, Prindle?” Attie asked.
“My father knows one of the guards,” Sarah replied with a shrug. “They’ve been friends since childhood. And men like to talk when they get drunk.”
“Is this particular guard going to be on watch tonight?” Iris said.
“No.” Sarah smiled, wrapping her fingers around her teacup. “Grantford is on duty tonight, and he’s renowned for his laziness. It’ll be perfect.”
There was no question of the thievery taking place that night, Grantford or not. Iris and Attie were supposed to head west to River Down the next morning.
Iris now stared at the window until it blended into the darkness. She could just discern the gleam of glass panes and she continued to wait, relieved when she finally heard a squeak.
The window was lifting.
Stage one of the heist had been successful.
Iris released a deep breath, tasting salt on her lips. She began to move along the branch until she could see Attie within the narrow window frame, whistling a mourning dove’s song.
Iris returned the sound and prepared herself, one hand holding fast to the bough above her, the other outstretched. Dimly, she saw Attie hurl the rope her way, its thick body like a snake striking the night. The end of the rope hit somewhere to Iris’s left, and just a few feet shy as it tore through the leaves. While Attie reeled it back in, preparing for a second attempt, Iris’s nerves sang.
She could sense the distance beneath her. If she fell, the ground would break her into pieces.
Three more tosses, and Iris finally grasped hold of the rope.
She was trembling as she walked it back to the trunk of the oak. Two deep inhales to calm her mind, and then she deftly began to knot the rope to the tree. Iris and Attie had practiced tying this particular knot endless times that day, because if they did it wrong, they would be plunging to their deaths. Yet one more number to add to the failed museum heists.
But once the rope was secured, Iris hesitated, feeling the tingling draw of the fall.
There was a courtyard below. Plots of wildflowers and a small reflection pond. The oak’s gnarled branches shaded half of a cobbled patio where museum employees and guests could sit and enjoy a cup of afternoon tea.
Another whistle of birdsong.
Iris glanced up, measuring the distance between herself and Attie. It felt as vast as the ocean, although it was just over ten meters. Her friend was still waiting, a shadow in the frame. Waiting to take hold of Iris’s hand and haul her in through the window.
She just needed to take that first step into midair.
Carefully, Iris did, letting herself hang from the rope. It held firm overhead, but five arm-lengths down the line, her hands began to sting, her grip inevitably weakening. Her gloves were slick; she clenched her jaw and welded her focus to the task.
She was halfway to the window when she heard a clatter beneath her.