Charlie's head still ached in the morning. She could open simple locks with no problem, easier than with keys. She just put her hand on a keyhole, any keyhole-she hadn't yet encountered a lock she couldn't open-and send a burst of her magic through. So far, any lock responded to her touch by opening up, although the more sophisticated locking mechanisms in safes and bank vaults often induced severe headaches. The last night's lock had been one of those.

She pulled the blanket over her head, but it didn't help the pounding in her temples. Better to get up and face the day. Wincing at the dull pulse of pain, she got out of bed and dressed. Perhaps the yesterday's heist would suffice for a while, and she wouldn't have to open another vault soon. Why couldn't her stepfather, Aaron, be content with the wealth he had already amassed? She had been opening locks for him and his gang of thieves for five years, ever since her mother died when Charlie turned thirteen. Why did he always want more? He knew about her headaches and he still wanted her to open more locks, so he could rob more banks, steal from more people.

She put the depressing and useless speculations out of her head and pattered downstairs to the kitchen for a fresh roll and a cup of coffee. Afterwards, feeling better, she started back up the stairs to her room. Was Aaron home, she wondered? Would he let her go to the subscription library today? Reading was her secret escape from his iron rule. It helped her to survive in her gilded cage. Maybe one day, books would help her gather some backbone to rebel against him, but not yet. Not enough to defy him openly.

She had once, two years ago, flatly refusing to open another lock. Her triumph had been short-lived. Mad at her insolence, he had hauled her home from their unsuccessful heist and whipped her bloody. Whipped her with his belt until she begged him to stop. She hadn't refused again, but after that day, she had started saving from her monthly allowance. Even though she didn't yet have enough money to last her for more than a few months, she would have to run away soon.

She was already on the second landing, when the front door opened. A male voice asked for Aaron. Charlie stopped, flattening herself in a dark corner. She didn't recognize the voice, and new visitors often meant new locks. She shivered. She'd better learn what this visitor wanted. It paid to be prepared. When Aaron's scratchy bass welcomed the guest and invited him to his study, Charlie dashed towards the servants' stairs at the end of the hall and skipped back downstairs.

The back door to Aaron's study was always locked, as if any lock could deter her. Maybe Aaron thought she only opened locks at his bidding. She smirked, flattened her palm over the keyhole, and the well-oiled lock clicked almost inaudibly. The men were still exchanging pleasantries inside, so the tiny ping dissolved into the ramble of their words. Charlie opened the door a few millimeters and listened.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Haffner," Aaron said in his hated gravelly voice.

"Not at all. Not at all. Thank you for thinking of our institution." Mr. Haffner sounded high and reedy, like a broken pipe.

"Yes, well, your asylum comes highly recommended. My daughter needs the best care. No money will be spared, of course."

His daughter? What was wrong with his daughter? As far as Charlie knew, she was the only daughter he had, and a stepdaughter at that. She didn't need an asylum. Hardly daring to breathe, she pressed her ear to the gap.

"Of course." Mr. Haffner's thin tone cut across her nerves. "What are her symptoms?"

"She has developed some delusions." Aaron's laugh boomed. "She thinks she is a thief. Every time there is an article in the papers about a bank robbery or some such, she thinks she is responsible. I wouldn't want her to blurt such nonsense to a stranger."

"Oh, dear," Mr. Haffner said.

Charlie clamped a hand to her mouth to keep from howling.

"You will provide her with a nicely appointed room," Aaron continued, "but I don't think she should be talking to anyone or wondering anywhere alone. I'll visit often and take her for some quiet outings once in a while, maybe some sweet treats, but other than that..."

"Yes, you're right. Such odd talks could be very embarrassing to a businessman in your position. She'll have the best room on the third floor. The bars in the window are practically invisible behind the curtains. When do you want to bring her to us?"

"You can take her with you when you leave here. You're a fine man, Haffner. Very understanding. Would you care for some refreshments first?" Aaron rang the bell.

Shaking, Charlie locked the door to the pealing of the bell and backed to the bottom of the stairs. She stared at the door as if it was poisonous and would spring at her at any moment. Her heart thumped wildly, and her hatred for Aaron raged like an inferno, spurring her headache again. The bastard was going to lock her in Mr. Haffner's asylum, in a room with bars on the third floor. She had to leave now, this moment, while they were drinking. And she had to stay calm, keep her head, or Aaron would catch her.

She ran up the stairs but didn't go to her bedroom. Instead she veered off to her old nursery. Her hands trembled, but her stash of money was where she had left it, in her old doll house. Aaron hadn't found it, thank god. She grabbed it and tiptoed to her room. She couldn't pack, couldn't take anything with her. Just the money. Inhaling deeply, trying to reel in her galloping thoughts, she put on her pelisse and walking shoes, collected her purse, and headed down the stairs again, much slower than she wanted.

She hoped Aaron hadn't given the orders to keep her in the house, or she was doomed. One of Aaron's muscle men, Tom, the dumbest of her stepfather's creatures, lounged at the door, on duty as a footman. She was never allowed out of the house alone, but if she could just leave the property, even with Tom in tow, she would escape.

"Good morning, Tom." Charlie smiled vacuously, although she wanted to scream. She wanted to pummel Tom's ugly mug. Even more, she wanted to kill Aaron, plunge a knife into his treacherous heart and see him squirm. The ungrateful swine. She had opened so many locks for him, made him rich, and in return, he decided to lock her in an asylum. He wouldn't get his wish. Not this time.

"I want to go shopping," she said, trying to sound nonchalant and not as if her entire life depended on Tom's answer. "Are you available to accompany me?" She prayed he would say yes. She prayed he couldn't hear the violent clamoring of her heart.

"Yes, Miss Charlotte," he said. "Should I order a carriage?"

Luck was with her. "Oh, no," she said breathily. "I think Father wanted to use the carriage today. Get a cab." She stepped outside under the front portico. Tom followed her, closed the door behind him, and tromped down the majestic marble steps to flag a cab at the corner.

Hurry, hurry, Charlie implored silently. Without turning, she pressed her palm to the keyhole of the front door and pushed the deadbolt home. It wouldn't stop anyone but it might delay them for a few seconds, until they found the key. Maybe she could do more. She concentrated on the cylinders inside the lock, sending more of her special powers into the keyhole and feeling the metal softening, losing shape. When she was done, her temples throbbed, but no key would open that lock now.

The cab stopped in front of the house, a few feet behind a black carriage. Through her worsening headache, Charlie squinted at the carriage as she scampered down the stairs to the cab. The ugly black equipage probably belonged to Mr. Haffner. Only a mental asylum's owner would paint his carriage in black. Happy not to travel in it, she accepted Tom's helping hand into the cab. He climbed in after her, and they were off.

"Greenwich Village, Tom," Charlie murmured and closed her eyes against the headache.

"Don't you want to go the Ladies' Mile first, Miss Charlotte?"

"No. I don't want a department store. I have a hankering for a fancy boutique."

"As you wish, Miss." Tom conveyed Charlie's destination to the driver.

The horse's hooves clopped rhythmically on the pavement, and she felt better with every additional yard between herself and the house, the house where she was born and where Aaron now ruled. She listened intently, half-expecting Aaron to rush outside, to yell at them to stop, for Tom to bring Charlie back, but the house stayed quiet. The cab rolled placidly along the street, farther and farther away from the hateful place. Aaron hadn't realized yet that she was gone.

Her mouth felt dry with fear and uncertainty, but whatever waited in her future, she would never go back. She loathed Aaron and his band of thieves but she would hate it even more if she was locked in an asylum. That pig Aaron would be so livid when he discovered she had flown his cage. The very idea thrilled her. She grinned faintly, and even her headache receded.

She knew the exact store she wanted; had investigated it before today. Of course, Tom accompanied her inside the store, but that wouldn't hamper Charlie's plans. She collected a bunch of clothing, blouses, dresses, skirts, and several silk scarves, and headed for the changing rooms, where Tom couldn't follow. Her luck held: this early in the morning, she was the only customer in the store. When a salesgirl attempted to come in with her into the changing room, Charlie shooed her away.

"I don't need your help just now. I'll try things on and call you if I need assistance."

"Yes, Miss," the salesgirl said complacently. She recognized Charlie on sight. During the last couple of years, Charlie had often patronized this shop while she researched her possible flight routes. Besides, she liked the shop and its stylish merchandize.

She spied on the salesgirl through a tiny gap in the door. As soon as the girl turned from the narrow, dimly lit corridor to the show room, Charlie snatched a black lacy scarf from the top of her clothing pile, stuffed it in her purse, and sneaked out of the changing room. She turned the other way, towards the back door.

As usual, it was locked, but the lock was simple and didn't exacerbate her headache. Charlie unlocked the door, slipped out, and locked it quietly behind herself. She darted across the alley towards the back door of an apothecary, also locked. No matter. A few seconds and two locked doors later, she was standing on a parallel street, signaling a cab. The apothecary clerk gaped at her through the glass window. She smiled apologetically and waved at him as she tumbled into the cab.

"Railway station. Please, hurry, driver. I need to make the train."

The first part of her escape worked. Tom would be waiting patiently for another ten minutes at least before he sounded the alarm. She had a head start. She wrapped the black scarf she had purloined from the shop around her distinctive coppery hair-not much of a disguise but better than none. Everyone in her stepfather's employ knew her aversion to headgear of any kind. Hats and hatpins often worsened her headaches, so she avoided wearing anything on her head, unless it was too cold. When Aaron began searching for her, he wouldn't ask for a girl in a headscarf. He would ask for a redhead.

Satisfied with her camouflage, Charlie paid the driver and marched into the railway station. She wouldn't skulk. She had as much right to be there as anyone else, and the station swirled with people: young clerks and old respectable gentlemen, stately matrons and exotic showgirls, families with children and factory workers. Colors and sounds carried around Charlie like tides. She clutched her purse and thought furiously. Where should she go? As far from New York as a train could carry her, but where would that be? And when? She had to leave the station in the next few minutes.

Frantically, she scanned her surroundings. She needed a train schedule. Oh, yes, there, a row of printed schedules hanging on the wall beside the ticket booths. Faking confidence she didn't feel, she strode towards the booths. Five minutes of studying the schedules, and she was ready for a purchase. She didn't care where she was going as long as it was the first train west. Fifteen minutes after that, she was sitting inside a first class cabin, together with three other passengers, trembling with anticipation.

The train blew a whistle and pulled out. Nobody ran onto the platform after it. Nobody raised the alarm and ordered the train to stop. Nobody dragged her off the train and into the asylum. She leaned her head on the plush back of her seat and closed her eyes. She was safe for now.