The stolen purse was heavier than expected—enough to last me a few days, maybe a week if I was careful. I slipped into a narrow side street, ducking beneath the overhang of an abandoned tailor shop. With a flick of my wrist, I untied the purse's drawstrings and peered inside.
Gold.
Not just a handful of coins, but enough to make me pause. No ordinary noble walked the streets with this much in his pocket.
I had stolen from someone important.
A thrill of satisfaction ran through me, but it was short-lived. My work—smuggling weapons, spying, surviving—had taught me that everything in Paris had a price. If I wasn't careful, I would soon find out what price this gold carried.
I tucked the purse into my coat and melted back into the crowd. Paris was alive now, morning light spilling over the city, catching on the edges of crumbling buildings and the filth-streaked streets. The market square was bustling, the scent of fresh bread and sweat mingling in the air. I kept my hood low, my hands steady.
I needed information.
---
The tavern I slipped into was nothing special—just another hole in the wall where revolutionaries, thieves, and the desperate gathered. The scent of stale ale clung to the air, mixing with the faint scent of damp wood and burning tallow candles.
I found a seat near the back, my back to the wall, my eyes on the door. I was not foolish enough to drink, not when I had work to do.
A few minutes later, a familiar figure slid into the seat across from me.
"Trouble follows you like a dog, Lya," Rousseau said, smirking as he placed a cup of wine in front of me. I ignored it.
"If trouble were a dog, I would have put it down long ago."
His chuckle was low, amused. "I heard about the raid this morning."
"Then you know I need a new place."
He studied me for a long moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. Rousseau was a dangerous man, but danger was a language I spoke fluently.
"I might know of somewhere," he said finally. "But first, tell me—who did you rob this morning?"
I tensed. "What makes you think I—"
"Because you wouldn't be sitting here if you hadn't stolen something valuable." He leaned forward, voice lowering. "Word spreads fast, mon ange. A certain noble was seen raging through the streets, screaming about a little street rat who picked his pocket."
I kept my expression calm. "Who?"
"Baron Devereaux."
The name sent a sharp bolt of recognition through me. I had heard it before—whispered in the same breath as corruption and cruelty. He was no ordinary noble; he was a man with connections, someone who would not let an insult go unanswered.
And now, I had his gold.
Rousseau watched me carefully. "If I were you, I'd disappear for a while."
I smiled, slow and deliberate. "If I were you, I'd get me another job."
He laughed, shaking his head. "You never learn, do you?"
No. And I never would.
Because Baron Devereaux was exactly the kind of man I wanted to cross.
And if he had power, I would take it from him—piece by piece.