I fastened my hood tighter over my head, shielding myself from the bitter cold as well as discovery. I should leave, I told myself. Turn around, lock myself in the safety and security of my home, and never come back.

There were rumors about what happened outside the thick walls of my city. About the random murders and savage marauders. Most were truths. And yet, in spite of that, my feet propelled me forward, never straying from my premeditated path.

Plus, I had an appointment I needed to keep. I stopped. My feet stalled on the shallow snow.

"Jack, are you here?" I whispered. A three-tone whistle answered my call, and a grinning face stepped into my view. I greeted him with a mock scowl. "Did you bring it?"

"You have the money?"

My hands slipped to the collar of my fur overcoat. I flicked the button through the small slit and then started in on the next. I went through, unbuttoning the small buttons carefully and meticulously. When I finished, I parted the flap while keeping its twin clutched tightly against my shivering skin. Along the seam of the coat was a distinctive bulge.

"Don't I always?" I smiled inwardly as excitement replaced my anxiety.

His eyes roamed over the bulge speculatively. "How much do you have?"

"Enough to cover the cost."

He started toward the money. I wrapped the parted flap back around my body, tightening my grip on the coat.

"You know the rules, Jack. Open up." I nodded at the bag sagging against his feet.

"No small talk, huh? I can work with that." He grabbed his satchel. "Being a business-minded person myself, I appreciate that quality."

He slipped the leather straps free from the buckles and flipped over the flap that guarded the treasures inside. After pulling on gloves, he began to slowly remove age-stained documents from the satchel.

"You're in luck." He waved the papers around, fanning his grinning face. "I just unloaded these fresh from this morning's shipment.

"Careful," he said as he transferred the manuscripts from his hands to mine. The pristine whiteness of my gloves seemed unnatural against the yellowed sheets. My eyes skimmed over medieval English and my nose crinkled as I registered it as a political document. I hid my sigh. Literature, art, music. That's what I liked. Politics. I scoffed inwardly—if I wanted to learn more about politics, I only had to ask my father.

I gently placed the papers in one of the built-in folders of my cross-body briefcase. This time, I didn't hide my sigh as I slipped my hands inside my fur coat once again to extract the money to pay for the purchase. Such a waste, I thought. I wish I didn't have to pay for something so useless, but that was one of Jack's rules. No substitutions. Every present was a surprise, one I didn't know if I'd like or not until I saw it.

Jack has kept me here, dancing to his tune and paying his exorbitant prices, banking on the fact that I would never say no. He holds information, priceless information. Things he doesn't even care about.

This was all a monetary transaction to him. For me, this was love. And I wouldn't—couldn't—let him destroy invaluable artifacts when I knew I could stop it. Even if it were just a political document from medieval England. There was value in the words. So I would pay it, and I wouldn't complain because every month held anticipation for the big one, the grand novelty. I only had to wait thirty days. He was just lucky that this feeling kept me going through the many disappointments.

But, as of late, there had been more disappointments than successes. How much longer could this go on?

I should end this. But I wouldn't. Something kept me from doing so. Not something. It was the thrill. I lived on it. I waited for it. I marked my internal calendar every day, keeping an eye out for the haunted eighteenth. It was on that day of every month that I stole from my home and left the sanctuary of the walls, willingly and voluntarily.

When I snuck from my room and crossed the steps from there to here, I felt just like a novel, like the heroine, plot, and words all smashed up into one being—one me—to create this extraordinary adventure. It's irrational, but I can't stop. I am an addict, hopelessly transfixed by the things that harm me the most.

The bad outweighed the good at every instance. I have been bled dry. For thirteen months, I've watched as the amount in my savings account depleted.

Like any good gambler, I saw the risks, but I paid no heed—to any of it. There was a cost to be paid for my misdeeds. I was sure of it, but as of right now, I've never had to pay the price. So it was with a certain smugness that I snuck from and returned to my city every eighteenth of every month, picked up the script of my life, and recommitted myself to the role that I was born to play.

I dragged down the zipper that lay in the interior of my coat where I knew the banknotes were hidden. "How much do I owe you?"

He smiled at me, shaking his head. "That's not all I've got for you, Celeste. I saved the best for last." He rummaged through his satchel until his hands pulled out a rectangular box covered with dull cloth and bound with twine.

My hands moved to touch it. "What's inside?"

"Just wait a minute." He shifted the box away from my grasp, carefully unknotting the twine and pulling away the cloth. Moments later a book, not a box, was revealed.

My mouth formed a small 'o' in surprise. "What's the name of the book?"

"Why don't you figure that out yourself ?" He tossed it to me. My hands explored the cover. It was leathered and burgundy with subdued red tints. Gold leaf was braided around the border. The burnished lights twinkled against the contrasting silver moonlight. Two, long, rectangular halves met in the middle. They were joined by a gold, heart clasp. I fiddled with the keyhole that lay in the center of it then flipped the book around. The back was as hard, leathered, and burgundy, as the rest of it. I tapped my hand against the binding then met Jack's patient eyes.

"I think it's a journal," he offered.

"Yes. I figured, but where's the key?"

Jack snatched the journal from my hands. "I'm only selling the journal."

I glared at his right hand as it threw the journal up and let its slight weight somersault in the air. Such irreverence...

"That means you probably don't have it. Why would I pay for a locked journal?"

Jack let it spin in the air once more before holding it close to his chest. "I'm not here to negotiate, Celeste. As I've said before, no—"

"Substitutions," I cut him off. "Yes, I know."

He smiled. "Good."

I covered my face with my hands. I wish I could say no. I watched as he banged the journal against his thigh and flinched. I knew what was coming before I even opened my mouth. "How much?"

"Are you sure?" he asked. "It'll cost you."

I reached for the journal, itching to pull it from his disrespectful hands.

"I don't care. How much?"

"Five thousand citz."

I wrenched my hand back. "That's obscene. Five thousand...for a book? I've never paid more than one thousand for anything of yours, and even that one time was a stretch. I'll give you fifteen hundred, but I won't go higher than that."

"You know my rules, Celeste," he said as he carefully rewrapped the book with cloth and rebound it with twine. "No substitutions. No negotiations. Ever." The book disappeared inside his satchel, which found its way over his shoulder again.

I watched the book float out of my life. I saw images of Jack eating off of it, using it to swat flies, and finally trashing it. "Final offer." My voice was firm as I tried to imitate my father's commanding tone. "Two thousand. I can't go higher than that, Jack. You won't get a better price anywhere else."

"No deal," was all he said before he turned to walk away.

"What do you need this money for anyway, Jack?" I shouted after him as I stomped my feet towards him on the snowy ground. "I'm not here to fund your drug habits."

He spun around. Snow flurries flew around him in reaction to the motion. "As if you have a clean record," he sneered. "You have a lot of nerve calling me out. What would daddy say if he knew you were here with me? Don't forget that it was you who started this, not me."

"Yes, and it is you who has benefitted the most. You and I both know that I'm your best costumer. Who else would pay your ridiculous prices, if not for me? You need me."

"What I need is five thousand citz for this journal. If you can't provide me with that, then I'll find someone who will."

"Go and look. I'm sure you won't find anyone in this state willing to waste that much money. Take one more step, and we're through. I'm tired of being ripped off."

His cheeks burned red. "Hey, I only give you genuine pieces. I may not care about art, but I'm honest about my work. Everything I've given you has gone through all the proper channels with all the proper verifications."

"Because honor among street thugs is so high. Let's not pretend like your ways of getting your artifacts are in any way legitimate."

"What are you gonna do, snitch on me? I don't remember you being so righteous when you paid for them. Go ahead, Celeste. Do your worst. Go and tell your daddy that the big, bad street thug ripped you off. And while you're at it, tell him how many times you've breached the walls and—"

"Oh, stop it." My hands ruffled my bangs as they flew to my forehead. My fingers rubbed at the worry line etched between my brows. "Jack, I'm sorry, but all I'm saying is that the price is too high. I'd be careless not to be suspicious. You've never played it straight with the law before. How do I know that it's not me you're conning this time?"

His body turned into itself. He shoulders slumped, and his stance slackened. The lights in his clear, green eyes were snuffed. "I want out, Celeste. Out of this life. Out of poverty." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I can't be a smuggler forever. I can do better. I can be better. This is my guarantee."