She paused, glancing down at the courtyard.
Far beneath her dangling feet, the world seemed to spin in the mist until she saw four figures walking over the cobblestoned patio. They were dressed in dark garments, their faces concealed behind masks.
Iris bit her lip, heart thrumming in alarm. Was this another heist in progress? Surely not, but she didn’t dare move as the figures strode directly beneath her. If one of them happened to glance up and see her, it would all be over.
Her shoulders burned as she held still, the cords of her neck tense. The seconds felt like years, but to Iris’s relief, the figures continued on their way, crossing the street before they melted into the night.
She continued to move along the rope, grinding her teeth when she reached the brick wall.
“Take my hand,” Attie urgently whispered.
Iris pried her right hand off the rope. She could scarcely feel her fingers as Attie’s firm grip came around them, hauling her upward and in through the window.
“Did you see them?” Iris asked, struggling to catch her breath. She reached out to lean on a battered chair, realizing they were standing in a storage room. It was overcome with crates and busted frames; the clutter made Iris feel even more anxious.
“Yes,” Attie replied. “I counted four of them. All wearing masks. Thought another heist was about to happen.”
“So did I. Who do you think they were?”
“Gods only know. Thieves with a different destination, maybe?”
Iris removed one of her gloves to wipe the sweat from her eyes. “You don’t think they saw me, do you?”
“No.” Attie’s attention darted back out the window, as if she didn’t quite believe it. “But in case I’m wrong … let’s not waste any time here.”
* * *
Iris followed Attie down two flights of stairs to the ground floor. At night, the museum felt like a different place, full of dangerous gleams and moving shadows. Or perhaps it was only a play of the low-lit lamps and the darkness in between? Iris wasn’t certain, but she shuddered when she thought she saw one of the marble busts move on its pedestal.
“Where’s Prindle?” she whispered.
“In the main office, guarding Grantford,” Attie replied in a low tone. “He didn’t put up much of a fight. He’s gagged and blindfolded.”
Iris nodded, turning down one of the wide hallways. The air felt cold and thick when she at last arrived at the chamber of mismatched, odd things. A pair of pointed leather shoes worn by one of the dead gods, a pocket watch that was rumored to provoke rainstorms every time it struck midnight, a sword named Draven that had once seen battle against the divines centuries ago, a small inkwell that brimmed with glimmering liquid, and a magic-forged typewriter. All enclosed in glass and set on display.
Iris eased the bag from her shoulders as she approached the First Alouette. Her fingers felt slow and numb as she unbuckled the pack, withdrawing the baseball bat.
This feels wrong, she thought with a prick of guilt. But she studied the glass case that held the First Alouette and a collection of old letters, and she added, I didn’t come all this way to turn around empty-handed.
She envisioned Roman in the west, trapped within Dacre’s cloying hold.
Iris swung.
The bat collided with the display case, shattering the glass. The pieces scattered across the floor, gathering like crystals between the typewriter’s keys. One of the letters fluttered down and rested amid the glittering carnage like a white flag of surrender.
Iris set the bat aside and stepped over the glass, feeling it crunch beneath the soles of her boots. She picked up the typewriter and turned it over to check the underside. A few more pieces of glass rained down as the strike bars shifted, but Iris found what she sought. The silver plaque was bolted to the inside of the frame, engraved with THE FIRST ALOUETTE, MADE ESPECIALLY FOR A.V.S.
This was what she needed. What she wanted.
She was holding magic in her hands, and she carefully set the typewriter into the black case she had brought, buckling the lid closed. Attie helped her slip the case into the pack, along with the bat. The thievery was over and done within heartbeats, but Iris couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that someone was watching them.
“I’ll go get Prindle,” Attie said. “We’ll meet you at the foot of the stairs?”
Iris nodded, hefting the pack onto her shoulders. She crouched to pick up the letter that had fluttered to the floor, a letter Alouette Stone had written decades ago, gently setting it on the glass-strewn pedestal. But her eyes caught on a line of typed words.