The clouds rolling in from the East were darkening. It was just past nightfall, but Garrett's eyes were more adjusted to the dark than most. Twenty minutes ago, he snuffed out the candles in his apartment and drew close the shades. Then he counted silently in the darkness, tumbling a copper between his fingers. The pointed buildings grew taller as Garrett made his way south, looming over the rough cobblestone street. He took shortcuts through alleys laid too dangerously for cart's wheels, not caring if anyone noticed.

He was passing through the Common District in the direction of Old Quarter. The two story apartments around him gave way to inns, pubs, and the occasional brothel. Garrett grinned to himself as an unclean, fat man was thrown protesting into the street by a brothel doorman. Two nights ago Remus had attempted to cheat Garrett in dice. Garrett's response was to take Remus for all he was worth as he brushed past on his way out the door. As Garrett passed by now, a round woman, who was probably charming many years ago, emerged in the brothel doorway and wagged her finger at Remus, who was still scrambling to his feet.

Garrett quickened his step past the scene. He was unconcerned, but the other passerby were doing the same and it was always prudent to blend in. They didn't slow down, scurrying to be out of the street before the night watch started asking rough questions. Garrett was about to throw the hood of his black cloak on when he saw the flickering torchlight of a patrolman rounding the corner illuminate the intersection.

He shifted easily on his heel and pushed into a pub called The Leaky Bilge. It was loud, packed, and lit hardly any better than the street. Faint mandolin music drifted over the babble of conversation. Garrett half-attentively pinpointed a hoary laugh to a full-bellied man at a longtable. His clothes were silk and Garrett's eyes lingered on a thin golden wristwatch making rounds in the air as the man gesticulated. Surely it was only plated. With him were several plainly dressed men and women, probably his or his neighborhood's shop assistants. Their faces were red and cheery with drunken glow. Garrett wanted the watch, but doubted he could nick it without waiting around longer than he desired. The assistants wouldn't have anything worthwhile, and tonight Garrett's conscience directed his talent elsewhere.

He could go back to the street now. His mind was sharp and timed to the speeds and patterns of city patrolmen, which he had been patiently observing for weeks, while he impatiently pickpocketed the poor. He was eager to move on to bigger marks and prove his talent to himself, but his plans required time. He took a step back towards the door, pausing as a piece of conversation from the merchant's table caught his ear.

"... was grabbed! He tells the patrolman he was looking for the richest man he could find, so he could moon him. I was standing there with my mouth hanging, expecting to see this drunk taffer get thrown in for the night, when the patrolman looked around - and I swear this part - and offered to help him find one."

"Did you find out who the patrolman was?" A woman's voice.

"No, and I wouldn't want to, they're all pretty temperamental. In fact..."

Garrett slipped his hood on and left, disappointed. He was hoping to hear more about the scandal which for the City was an impetus to ignite coals under their men. Somebody hit a string of prominent noblemans' coffers hard a week ago, a better thief than Garrett. Despite the fact there was no curfew in the City, and rarely ever had been, patrolmen were now pointlessly questioning citizens after dark to relieve the pressure coming down the chain of command. It was hot news for the working class, although Garrett had known it now for days.

He kept his eyes peeled on the streets. It wouldn't be the end of things if Garrett got his arm grabbed, but it would be unpleasant and he definitely couldn't let it happen with the same guard twice in one night. He recalled a situation he was in several months ago when he was sure he'd end the night in a cell.

He was too confident with the guard who was casually questioning him, despite quickly thinking of a good excuse to be in the Bellefleur district after midnight, surrounded by old wealthy homes. Yes, sir. He was looking for the house where his cousin was a servant, who had forgotten a gift for an esteemed guest, and the number was 1314... or was it 1413? He couldn't be sure. Garrett had eavesdropped on a lot of conversations in other people's houses and was pretty satisfied with the story he pulled out of nowhere, figuring the guard wouldn't want to stick around and help him try to remember what the house looked like. That's where he went wrong. The chap was beyond the halfway point in developing a head of fully ashen hair, and Garrett mused that he was probably at the crescendo of a life's regret, because he took "Neil's" problem to heart.

For over an hour Garrett had to keep up the ruse, eventually directing the attention away from Neil's cousin and finally commiserating the old watchman's sorrows with a bottle of wine in a pub. Eventually the graying watchman jolted back to reality with a suspicious glare. A gift, you said. Where's the gift? An esteemed guest you said, and not a, *hic*, fancy gift? Fortunately for Garrett, the mistrustful stare was through bleary eyes and Garrett's own adrenaline fueled dash through shadowed alleys had sobered him quickly.

He let his memories fade into the drone of the streetlights. Hood up, face grim, he stalked south, making less noise than the rats scurrying thirty yards away. He had been planning this night for three months now. If anything went wrong it would be due to his own clumsiness, or drastic misfortune. He was not going to let that happen because of a wandering mind. He tried to focus.

Garrett's mind always raced before a job. Hours pored over copied plans and guard details. Securing contacts who could be trusted to assist with building plans, fence lists. Weeks of listening to gossip and casually dropping bait in conversations with the lowlife to get the names of those who could help him. It ran in reverse through his mind. If everything went according to plan he would walk out of Lord Brimsham's manor tonight with over a thousand pound's worth in gold, including Lord Brimsham's secret mistress's prized silver necklace. For that particular piece, Garrett's fence had a nobleman, with a jealous wife, who would pay dearly to see the court's gossip relocated. It would be the most difficult part of his night, having nothing conclusive on its location or her habits.

He stopped. He was a block from the manor gates. The original houses in Old Quarter were large and affluent, impaling the clouded night sky with black silhouettes. Once it began to rain, if he was not careful, he would track it all across the mansion. He took a moment to scope out the pair of guards standing beside the ornate gate. They would be all but impossible to see in front of the stone wall from any further. One of them shifted his weight and the other spat. They appeared alert. As far as they were concerned, they were in for a long night, even if nothing happened.

Garrett hesitated and crept closer. He could see the manor looming far behind them in the yard. The wall of houses on his side of the gate came right up to the street, the only grass for blocks on the other side of Lord Brimsham's wall. Old Quarter was cramped with new renovations and historic buildings crushed in an amalgamation of old and new. Garrett loved it. It was the perfect territory for a thief. The entire district was a maze of mismatching buildings, thin streets and alleys, and jutting architecture.

He didn't need to look at his map, having already planned his entrance. He disappeared into an alley and climbed to a rooftop, looking directly down a tree in the Lord Brimsham's yard. Beneath and to his right, one of the guards was testing the other's patience with a hummed tune. Garrett fixed a rope around a thin support beam, tested it for good measure, and slipped into the yard. He was very satisfied. The rope was practically invisible even this close to the tree. His eye was on the guards and though he could hear his own boots thud on the grass, they did not stir.

There were few trees for him to duck behind, so he moved quickly through the large yard practically on three limbs, a scrambling shadow cutting across the grass diagonally. The mansion was a stone three story with two story wings. The roof was too dark to make out anything more than black points cutting the night, but Garrett knew it was shingled with red clay. It did not matter; he would not be traversing the rooftop. From a tree sculpted into a nude woman, he peered at the angle of the manor. To the west, steps leading to a fountain and a tiled terrace, more steps up to the house. Flanking the east was the front of the house, big double doors and dark windows interspersed with trimmed bushes.

He took a step toward the terrace and froze, hearing an approaching crunch of gravel. Stepping back carefully behind the naked woman, he watched a lone guardsman walk toward him, pass, and enter the mansion. Garrett snuck past to a window, crouched, and peered in. There was an empty hall with passages leading away, and a doorway to a sitting room. Lamps on the wall lit the interior brightly. Garrett couldn't risk being spotted.

His informant said that the second floor balcony above the terrace would be unlocked. Garrett had already been in the yard to strategize, and he carefully shimmied up the corner stonework until he was close enough to push himself over. He nearly slipped, but caught himself sideways by his elbow and a leg, and rolled over the balcony with an umpf. He tried the door. Unlocked.

His blood ran hot as he slipped inside. The thrill of trespassing caught up with him, and he was delighted with the thought of being caught; the mix of outrage, terror, and indignation the "trespassed" would feel. He had no intention of being caught, but now that he was committed, even as his brain coldly calculated and his limbs seemed to move stealthily to his absolute best interest without his control, it was as if there were two people in Garrett. One was self-absorbed, a cold-blooded predator in fight-or-flight mode. The other was a gleeful imp who was violating sacred space.

He crept the hallways, afraid he wouldn't hear the giveaway of footsteps over the pounding of his heart. The second floor of the manor was concentrated with valuables and barely guarded.