The first rule to successfully robbing a home is to blend in.

I walk around the back of the house with red shutters, slipping into an alleyway and scanning the exterior, my eyes picking out the bricks that will lead me to the top. Silent as a ghost, I leap up and scale the outer wall, bypassing the first-, second- and third-storey windows before reaching the top floor. I pause a moment to take a few breaths, concentrating on slowing my heart rate while I strain my ears to hear any sounds coming from inside.

Hearing nothing, I take my chances and swing over to the window ledge, peering in and scanning the room beyond. Excellent. It is completely empty and I can already see a promising-looking bureau sitting passively against the wall.

Experience has taught me that the top floor is the best place to check for a spare outfit. These rooms are typically used as the servants' quarters and are often unoccupied during the day when the commoners are out performing their chores.

I steal through the window and pad gently across the floor toward the wardrobe, still apprehensive of the sounds of any unwelcome company.

Pulling open the doors, I grin at the racks of maids' simple shift dresses and caps. I select one of the dresses at random and change quickly, re-tying my belt and concealing it behind an apron before I tuck my telltale red locks into a headscarf. I don't bother changing my shoes; my boots are scuffed and dirty, but the skirt hides them well enough. I stash my clothes back in the wardrobe and make a quick stop over at the water basin, frowning at the reflective glass above as I rub a bit of dirt off the side of my too-sharp nose, revealing the scattering of dark freckles beneath. My nose has always made my green eyes appear distrustful, calculating. Which I suppose isn't too far from the truth.

I leave after I've washed the excess dirt off my hands and face, shutting the door to the maid's apartment firmly behind me.

I make my way down the darkened corridor, my eyes flicking up occasionally to glance into the rooms leading off it. My chin stays tucked down low, my every air that of a humble servant. I pass no one in the hall and arrive at the landing of a spiral staircase.

The third floor has to be the living quarters. Bright fabrics of varying patterns and colours decorate the furnishings, a sharp contrast to the muted world outside. What is it with these courtiers? Half the City is struggling to put enough food on the table, while the courtiers spend precious money on making a room look pretty. What a waste.

I am certain that if I were to duck into any of these rooms, I would find some expensive heirlooms. Courtier jewellery would fetch a good price at the pawn shops, but I don't want to take anything that the family could potentially blame on the servants. No, I have my sights set on something else. I bypass the bedrooms and aim for the second floor.

The second rule to successfully robbing a house is to take only the odds and ends; pieces that anyone could put aside and simply "misplace." From the looks of this house, I'll have plenty to choose from.

As I descend the stairs to the second floor, I immediately note a lot more activity. Maids and stewards go about their chores, quietly murmuring instructions and gossip to one another as they work. With my head down and my steps purposeful, I fit right in. I slip into what appears to be a drawing room and grab a discarded rag off a chest. As I dust a shelf, I slip a small silver candlestick and an ebony letter opener into the pouch hidden beneath my apron.

The next room is an office, dominated by a giant, polished wood desk. I pass my rag over its surface, shuffling through the papers and slipping a couple of coins into my palm. A butler walks into the room just as I am leaving and I offer him a swift curtsey before I disappear back into the hall.

My heart beats heavily in my chest while adrenalin courses through my veins. I grow bolder and swipe a jewelled hair comb from the top of a hall table. This piece alone ought to be enough to keep my landlord off my back and deep in mugs of ale for a few weeks.

I find a couple of young maids on the main stairwell to the first floor. They cast me curious glances but say nothing so I continue downstairs, intent on some silverware from the kitchen.

I am heading toward the back of the house, the pouch at my waist clattering softly, when my attention is diverted by a half-open door and the room beyond. Before I can stop myself, my feet are moving of their own accord and I am slipping into the library.

Wiping a rag absentmindedly over the bookcases, I allow myself a look upward to take in the miraculous collection. Books. Books lining every wall from ceiling to floor, in every colour I could ever imagine, their gold and silver bindings flashing cheerily in the afternoon sunlight.

I run my hand over the titles, enjoying the scratchy feeling of the covers beneath my fingertips. One beautiful green spine catches my eye and I reach for it, cracking open the cover and breathing in the familiar, musty scent. Memories swirl through my head as I allow the comforting aroma to return me to a time spent in a tiny flat, listening to my father read aloud by lanternlight. The floor of our flat was always stacked with his books, grouped together in hodgepodge piles on the floor—

"Have you read it?" A voice behind me breaks through my thoughts.

I jump, sending the green book crashing to the ground. My face burns as I stoop to retrieve it, the pouch beneath my apron digging conspicuously into my ribs.

"I, uh, was just putting it back." I struggle to regain my composure, deliberately avoiding looking at the stranger as I carefully place the book back on the shelf. I hear him step closer and turn back around, keeping my eyes trained on the floor. A pair of worn leather boots appear in front of me. The choice of footwear suggests that I've encountered a servant, but as my gaze travels upward, I note a pair of fine leather gloves tucked into his belt, embossed with a kind of crest or insignia. I've been caught by a courtier.

Damn.

"My apologies, sir. I'll just get back to my duties..." I attempt an awkward curtsy and step to the side.

"It's a shame, isn't it?" I detect a note of humour in his voice. "My father keeps an entire room full of books but not a person in this house will read them, much less discuss them."

I halt in my tracks, startled that this man with the dusty boots and handsome gloves would continue a conversation with a servant girl.

"I never read that particular book, but my father owned a copy," I say, the words falling out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Put a stopper in it, Kay.

"There we are! Your father is a fan of Tolstoy?" he presses.

I raise my eyes and look up at him, arrested suddenly by a pair of steely grey eyes. The man looks to be only a little older than me, tall and broad, dressed in a plain, collarless linen shirt with the top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He sports a short, dark beard and his hair is cropped close to his head in a rough style. I am struck by his grooming; most men of his station pride themselves on their polish, typically opting to shave their chins and oil their hair. I complete my assessment, noting a light sheen of sweat on his throat, which tells me he has recently come from the outside. If it weren't for the quality of his clothes, I would have taken this man for a commoner, perhaps even considered him attractive.

I need to end this conversation and get out of this stolen dress immediately.

"Tolstoy was his favourite." I smile a little at the memory.

The side of the man's mouth lifts in response. Ducking my head, I step smoothly around him and disappear back into the hall. Time to leave; the silverware will have to wait until another day.

Walking briskly toward the stairs and without a backward glance, I spiral upward until I reach the fourth-floor landing. My thoughts continually drift as I run; I am lost in a haze of annoyance and the man's strange half-smile when a sound suddenly stops me in my tracks. I stand stock still, waiting until I hear it again. It seems to be coming from the room up ahead.

I press against the wall and peer cautiously around the doorframe. Two figures are fumbling about on the bed. I catch a glimpse of a woman's tear-streaked face. Her maid's headscarf has gone askew as she attempts to push the man away.

"Please, sir, I don't want—"

The man grunts some threat and she gasps, clawing fruitlessly at his arm as he leans over to suppress her cries.

A strange rushing sound fills my ears and the colour red nearly blinds me. I cross the room in two quick strides and grip the man by the collar, catching him off guard and throwing him to the floor. The girl shrieks, huddling against the headboard and pulling her skirt down around her legs.

"What in the eternal Burn do you think you are doing?" the man hisses, enraged yet still mindful enough to keep from alerting the rest of the household.

His silken vest and pressed white shirt tell me I have stumbled upon the lord's private quarters. He's older than I expected, marked with thinning grey hair oiled within an inch of its life.

I glance over at the girl. Her tears are drying and she appears unharmed.

"I should ask you the same question," I say, reaching beneath my apron and smoothly loosing the dagger from my belt. My voice is even, disguising the rage I feel boiling over within.

His eyes follow the dagger cautiously as he licks his thin lips and stammers, "You dare threaten a man of this house, you filthy commoner? The King will have your hands! You are never going to work again, you will rot away on the street, you—"

"Terribly frightening, really, but I'm afraid that neither you nor the King has any say over what I do."

I step closer, my voice steady and my eyes burning into his.

"I am the Runner. I have eyes and ears in every corner of this city, and I can promise that if you ever think of harming a member of this household again, I will return. I will come directly and slice your little friend right off from between your legs. Now, how does that sound to you?"

The old man chokes and shuffles back on his hands. "Get out of here at once, you... you gods-damn traitor."

I tilt my head slightly, crouching and bringing the dagger lower. For the briefest of instants, I let the blade hover near his neck, considering the pathetic quivering of his throat. The City would be better off without this noble piece of trash littering up the place and I am not such a fool to think I can protect his servants from his perverted appetites. The red pulsing at the edges of my vision tempts my dagger forward, but instead I drop it several inches, holding the point near his waist meaningfully. "Now, now. There's no need to bring the gods into this ugly bit of business. You've been a terribly ungracious host, but I think the least you could do is offer me a parting gift."

The old courtier scowls but dutifully reaches into his pocket and tosses his purse over.

"Thank you." I pocket my earnings. "And I think that your staff could use a raise, as well. Let's say two silvers a week? See to it, and perhaps your fellow wealthy ingrates won't hear of your shameful hobbies."

The lord's face purples, his white goatee standing out grotesquely. I beckon the maid from the room and step out after her, dipping a bow before shutting the door behind me.

My window to leave has just narrowed considerably. I throw the maid a small wave and she responds with a bewildered stare as I dart off back down the corridor.

I hurry back to the chamber I entered from, depositing my disguise back into the wardrobe and pulling on my own ragged tunic. I make sure to leave a couple of coins in the pocket of the maid's apron before I move to the window.

I step up onto the ledge and swing out, turning and lifting myself onto the roof so I can sit in the sun. The household will be alerted to my presence but I am no longer worried about being caught. The roofs disguise me with a single truth; no one ever looks up.

Once I am settled comfortably, I pull my pouch free of my belt and spread my winnings out before me, grinning when the old pervert's purse tips several coins into my palm. Not a bad haul, considering the slip-up in the library.

I shake my head to clear the image of the young man's smile and instead concentrate on how to avoid making the same mistake again. I shouldn't have let myself become distracted by some silly books. Years of thieving have made me careless. I cannot afford to let my mind wander: a single blunder and I could end up thrown in some stinking gaol. Worse, my hands could be chopped from my wrists and I'd be reduced to a beggar grovelling for scraps. I shudder at the idea.

Of course, the biggest mistake was my dramatics in the bedroom. I rarely reveal my identity when out on a job; maintaining a low profile allows me to move as unobtrusively as possible. The Runner is an identity I use to protect myself, and five years on, the name Kay Knight barely means anything to anyone. That's just the way I like it.

The problem is that my troublesome alter ego has begun to attract attention, either negative or positive, depending on who you're talking to.

Perhaps it was reckless of me to confront that disgusting old courtier, but someone like him deserves a lot worse than I dished out. My stomach churns just thinking about it. How many households are run by these upper-class pricks, taking advantage of the hold they have over the rest of us?

I stand up, scooping my earnings back into the pouch at my belt and checking to see that my dagger is secure. I walk to the edge of the building and glance down, squinting through the glare cast by the sun. An oddly familiar figure swims into view. The young man from the library runs out the front door and into the street. He looks left, then right, seemingly searching for someone. I scoff to myself. He can look all he wants, but so long as I remain up here—

I gasp and step back from the ledge.

Up. He looked up.

No one has ever looked up.

I wrinkle my brow, thinking. I am certain of it. The young man clearly looked in both directions, then turned and stared up at the roof. Did he see me? No, he couldn't have. I'm four storeys above him.

Not wanting to take any chances, I spin on my heel and run at the next roof, leaping across the narrow alleyway, plus a few subsequent roofs for good measure. I laugh a little as I land in a crouched position on the final building, my limbs buzzing from the pure exhilaration of running. The purse jingles happily at my waist when I straighten, affirming a good day's work. I can head down to the tavern and buy myself a congratulatory drink.

Up. He looked up.