Page 13 of How to Steal a Galaxy

I take a deep breath. It’s just two cons, really. Do one job for my client, do one for me. And mine’s a long job. I’m just planting a few seeds I hope to harvest later; that’s all. No pressure.

I don’t want to calltoomuch attention to myself. I wander into the grand corridor, and Rian drops back, resuming his shadow role. Even if I can feel him watching me like a hawk, no one else throws me a second glance. I’m just another pretty dress in a room of silk. And I’d like to keep it that way.

The central hall is the museum’s showstopper. The wide, open space is littered with cushy, backless seats covered in lush black-and-burgundy material that gives the appearance of burnt marshmallows. Above, cut-crystal panes cast prism rainbows over the white stone floor, the rainbows lost amid the elaborate costumes of the mingling guests. Whole feeds are dedicated to the fashion on display now, and I’ve got the insider scoop. There are the classic gowns, like mine, pretty dresses whose only purpose is to sparkle.

I prefer the bolder designs—the man painted in what looks like liquid silver, so shiny his chest could be a mirror, but with matte-black lines cut at odd angles so no one quite knows where to look at him. The woman whose gown is studded with mini holo displays, showing off constantly blooming flowers that open and close their petals with each step. My favorite is the man whose skirt billows when he walks, smoke and glittering sparks faintly visible under the dark material, like a storm cloud barely contained.

All the waitstaff are dressed in matching suits made of blue, watery-like material. I make a beeline to the closest one.

“May I offer you—” the server says, holding out a silver platter with twenty or so small plates of various delicious-looking concoctions.

“Yes, thank you,” I say. I use both hands to take the entire platter, ignoring the rude way the staff member blinks at me, and head to an empty seat. The burnt marshmallows may be ugly, but they’re at least big. I put the large platter down and sit beside it, plucking a plate off as I cross my ankles and gaze about the room.

The Museum of Intergalactic History is really big on appearing authentic, which means it ironically looks like the old classical museums on Earth, emulating Ancient Greek architecture that was first translated through centuries and other countries and has now been strained through millennia and other worlds. But smooth, white stone blocks don’t hide the security scanners perched atop the columns, and the silver-and-gold decorations do little to distract from the drone monitors hovering like bees above the crowd.

“You did a good job,” I say.

Rian steps out from behind the column he was ostensibly leaning against, not quite out of sight but emulating stealth in the same way the museum makes a caricature of Greek academia.

“The security measures,” I offer him graciously. “No one would dare steal anything here.”

Rian doesn’t try to hide his snort of disbelief. “I somehow don’t trust you.”

“No, seriously. I can’t find a single flaw.”

Emotion flickers over his face. He wants to be proud.

But he doubts me.

Cute.

He deflects by reaching for one of the small plates on my platter. I smack his hand away. “Get your own. I’m only here for the food, you know.”

Rian snorts. “No, you’re not.”

My mouth is too full of some sort of delicate pastry for me to quip anything back. I close my eyes, savoring the way the buttery, flaky crust melts on my tongue. I could fail this mission, and it would be worth my time for this moment. Not that I’m going to fail. But still. My contact should have opened with the free hors d’oeuvres; I would have taken this job faster.

I feel the seat cushion dip, and my eyes fly open, my hands moving to the plate on my lap so nothing spills as Rian settles in beside me. He’s trying to be formal; he’s sitting so that his back is to my right side, as if we’re strangers.

Well, that just won’t do. I lean against him, my head dropping on his shoulder.

“What are you here for, Ada?” he asks in a quiet voice meant only for me. “What are you trying to steal or sabotage or terrorize? Other than me.”

“Don’t be boring,” I say gently. He has to know he’s not going to get the drop on me.

He huffs a little laugh, the movement of his body rippling into mine. I let it happen, I let the momentum pass into me, I let the reverberations of his amusement vibrate through my bones.An object in motion stays in motion.That’s what Newton said.

And that makes me think of theHalifax, where I met Rian. And First, Nandina, Saraswati, Magnusson. And Captain Ursula, my best friend, of course. They’re still going. They’ll keep going, too, job after legit job.

Not Rian and me.

Not us.

I use my finger to mash up the remnant crumbs on the plate and bring them to my lips, then swap the empty plate for one with a single jiaozi garnished with pickled ginger. When I bite in to it, the filling is...odd. It squeaks against my teeth, and I have to bite down harder than I should for a regular dumpling, even one that’s been fried. My eyes track everything that remains on the platter.

“It’s all supposed to be Earth food,” I grumble. This is a charitable gala to benefit Earth conservation; this is supposed to be authentic. But just like the museum is a replica of a building in a nation that never existed on this planet, the caterers have used Earth recipes with Rigel-Earth ingredients. The jiaozi filling isn’t chicken or pork. It’s probably praxal, a meat far more readily available on this planet. I don’t know if it’s because the museum coordinator didn’t think there was a difference or if they assumed their substitution was better than the original. Probably the latter. Typical.

“You’ve gone into each of the auction rooms,” Rian says, and it almost sounds like he’s reviewing notes with a subordinate.

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