Page 7 of Princess of Thieves

Call it women’s intuition. Call it a general spidey sense. But from the way she inflected those words, I knew Rosa was my jailer, my guard. The dainty rocking chair that sat on the landing leading out into the main second-floor hallway wasn’t just for decoration; it was for her to monitor me, to make sure I didn’t go anywhere I wasn’t supposed to.

And as if that weren’t enough, I noticed, just before she tucked it out of sight, a bruise on her wrist—ugly and purple.

Maybe it was just my imagination. Maybe it was something unrelated. But the pain I felt seeing that—the understanding, the knowing what it’s like to be punished when things go wrong, even if you can’t reasonably control them—well, I felt it all too deeply.

I wasn’t going to let that happen to her. I wasn’t going to take any stupid risks to hurt myself and try to escape, either. So I just nodded, mumbled, “Thank you,” and returned to the room.

I WAKE UP I DON’T KNOWhow many hours later on top of the covers, curled in the fetal position. There’s daylight outside, gleaming through those locked windows.

I must have slept until the next day.

Seven a.m., according to the grandfather clock. I barely have time to sit up and blink before there’s a knock at my door. I stiffen, scrambling to seated on the bed, but quickly hear a soft female voice.

“Miss?” It has to be Rosa.

“Yes,” I croak, my throat sandpaper dry. “Come in.”

She obliges, and the door swings open to reveal the petite woman carrying a breakfast tray. I smell coffee—thank God—and my heart squeezes, thinking of Tuck and all his breakfast bounty back in the forest. That was all a lie, all for show, all for something more than just taking care of me, and that hurts.

Because I was starving in more ways than one, and I thought I’d finally found a healthy place to be, to fill myself back up. But no.

Rosa dips her head. “Good morning, Miss. Mr. Guy says he hopes you slept well.”

“Thanks,” I say automatically, then shake my head. I rake my fingers through my loose hair, rubbing some of the sleep out of my eyes. Rosa sets the tray on a low coffee table near the loveseat in this apartment. Besides coffee, there’s a bowl of what looks to be something whole-grain and hot, along with some sliced strawberries.

“Your breakfast,” she goes on.

“Thank you,” I say again. I can’t say it really looks that appetizing, even though it’s clearly gourmet. I’m not really a granola kind of girl—literally or figuratively—and I’d kill for a bacon, egg, and cheese right now. But my stomach is so empty that it’s hard to resist anything.

And I guess I’m probably stupid for accepting food, even from someone as nice as Rosa, because it ultimately comes from Guy. But I also think, Fuck it. What do I have to lose? I don’t really have anything to live for, so if I get poisoned and die...

It’s a grim line of reasoning, but it’s hard to argue with. Yet, at the same time, I get the feeling that he doesn’t actually want to kill me. It doesn’t really make sense. If anything, he wants to keep me alive, use me for...I don’t know what.

So I mutter “Fuck it,” scoot off the bed, and inhale the cereal. The coffee, though—that much is absolutely heavenly.

Rosa watches me carefully, but I’m too hungry to notice. When I’m done, she carefully stacks the dishes and steps to the side, hands folded.

“Mr. Guy would like to make sure you have some clothes,” she says. “He’s asked me to get your sizing.”

From the pocket on her maid’s uniform, she produces a measuring tape.

“Oh,” I say. “Sure.”

I stand up and let her loop the measuring tape around my body with deft, gentle movements. It occurs to me that if I had a nickel for every time a mysterious rich guy offered to buy me a new wardrobe, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t very much, but it’s weird that it’s happened twice.

Rosa tightens the tape, just barely, muttering a few numbers in Spanish, and then nods, releasing me from her little lasso of truth.

“Thank you, Miss. Mr. Guy says you may join him downstairs whenever you like.”

I don’t think I’d ever like to, but I can’t just stay in this room. I’ll go crazy, and I need to know if he’s serious—if Uncle John isn’t looking for me anymore, if there’s any chance that I’m really free? Well, I want to know.

Ten minutes later, I’ve scrubbed my face, brushed my teeth, and done my best with my hair, despite not having a brush. The house is breezy and quiet, almost too perfect to think that someone actually lives there. And despite it being a sunny day, it all feels dark—wood panels everywhere, narrow windows, heavy drapes. Classic style, I know, but it’s not my favorite.

I’m turning down the main staircase and toward the kitchen when a voice makes me jump.

“There she is.”

I spin around. It’s Guy, and he is not dressed.

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