Keyla wrapped the Diary in the single scrap of white cloth she owned and lay it gently down. She replaced the floorboard over the opening, satisfied that it was barely noticeable that it had ever been pried up. What few belongings she owned were stashed in various places around the abandoned distillery she’d squatted in for the past year.

The main doors of the building had been closed off by the city when the distillery, Auldavulin’s, had declared bankruptcy. The large bolts sank deep into the metal doors and the windows were barred, effectively sealing off entry to the building.

Keyla had praised Selah the day she’d stumbled upon the hatch in the ceiling of the sewer tunnel into which she’d fled. It opened into the abandoned distillery. Not only had she escaped the guard that saw her steal a beef shank intended to be her dinner, but the hatch locked from the inside, granting her a feeling of safety in a space that was her own. Safety and solitude was a combination she’d never experienced in her two decades of street life.

Beggars and urchins tended to band together into gangs, or join one of the underworld guilds that permeated the dark corners of Ryk. Keyla had considered joining the thieves guild, and had been approached by them multiple times over the years. They didn’t try and bully her into joining their ranks the way some of the gangs did, they simply checked in to gauge her interest, and left without another word when she expressed none. Something about becoming dependent on others didn’t sit well with her. Or maybe it was that she didn’t want others becoming dependent on her?

She sat down on the pile of rags she’d pushed together as a makeshift bed, and lit the gas lamp on the floor next to her. The sun wouldn’t set for another couple of hours, but the few windows Auldavulin’s had were caked with grime and further shadowed by the towering buildings around it, making it almost as dark as night inside.

Keyla tore a piece off the loaf of rye she’d pocketed on the way home from the sermon, and shoved it into her mouth. Grabbing a piece of chalk, she leaned forward to begin scribbling on the floorboards.

“The Teknar’s live in the Upper Ward,” she said aloud, satisfied nobody could hear her from outside the concrete and metal building.

The townhouses in the Upper Ward were where the richest citizens of Ryk, who did not qualify for nobility, lived.

“The guards will patrol there more regularly than here.” Keyla sighed. She was too unfamiliar with the district. She’d been there a handful of times in the past few years but the law was more attentively enforced there, and she would attract immediate attention with her ragged clothes.

“Perhaps a runner?” she pondered aloud. Usually delivery runners were boys or girls much younger than Keyla, but she was small and could probably pass for one in the right clothes. Cleaner clothes, at the very least.

She took another bite of rye and tried to sketch out what she could remember of the street layout in the Upper Ward. It wasn’t much, in the end. She would wake early tomorrow and head to the runner’s guild to see if she could pick up a job or two to the district in order to look around without causing too much suspicion.

She’d also need to acquire another set of clothes. With the river that ran through the city right behind the distillery, she had only kept the one set of clothes she currently wore for the past six months. Life on the streets had taught her to closely guard the possessions most dear to her, and discard those that weren’t. While she looked forward to a wardrobe of her own one day, it was currently easier to just wash what she had in the river at night, when no one would see. If she ever had to abandon Audavulin’s, the less she needed to carry, the better.

For this job however, she would need an outfit that wouldn’t be immediately connected to Keyla, that strange, mousy girl from the Lower Ward. Perhaps a pair of trousers and suspenders like many of the runners she watched jog through town everyday wore. She could pull her tangled hair back in a ponytail, something she did rarely, to help her appear different as well. Or hide it under a hat, if she could acquire one, and pose as a boy? She’d certainly pass as one at a casual glance with her hair hidden and in the right clothing. Many of the runners wore newsboy hats, after all. She may be able to find them at Troussaud’s.

Madame Troussaud’s was a lesser known clothier just on the end of the merchant quarter that hadn’t quite managed to make a name for itself. It was near the runner’s guild, and Keyla knew it had a back entrance that she could escape quickly through if she was caught acquiring her new outfit. The owner wasn’t a madame at all, and had a nasty streak a mile wide that kept most of the street rats out of her shop, but Keyla knew how to move in ways that caused most folk to ignore her.

Unable to sketch out any more of the district’s layout beyond the grid-like system of avenues and large circle vaguely indicating the Teknar’s townhouse, she set the chalk down and collapsed back onto her makeshift bedding. She pulled the canvas dust curtain she’d been using as a blanked over herself and turned onto her side.

Keyla was a light sleeper and knew she didn’t get enough of it, but her nightmares regularly startled her out of her rest. The recurring feeling of burning, almost as though she were remembering it, though she’d never been badly burned, would wake her more than once and ensure she would be up with the dawn.

She reached over and turned the knob on her gas lamp, plunging the distillery into darkness, and closed her eyes.

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Keyla bolted upright for the third time since laying down, breathing heavily and wanting to scream out but feeling like she had no voice left. She heaved breath after breath as she tried to calm herself. It was always the third time waking from the fires in her dreams that would prevent her from falling asleep again, and so she pushed the canvas curtain off and turned to reach for the gas lamp.

She fumbled as she tried to open the small metal drawer at its base where she stored her matches. There was only one left. Another thing she’d have to steal today. At least the gas cannister below the drawer was a recent acquisition and would last her another month.

She held the match as long as she could after lighting the lamp, watching the flame burn down the stick toward her fingers, thinking about it engulfing her entire body and screaming out in pain, the way she did in her nightmares.

“Ouch!”

She dropped the matchstick and slapped it with a rag, snuffing out the flame. She’d never been able to hold it long enough for the fire to actually touch her skin, so why were her dreams so vivid? Why did they feel like memories?

She blew on her fingers as she reached for the remaining loaf of bread that had been her dinner the night before. It was harder now, but it would do. Soon she would have the coin to purchase a real meal. Many meals, at that! She just needed to make a plan, and execute it. She crunched through another bite. Sooner, rather than later.

“Alright Keyla, today’s plan. Let’s figure this out.”

She picked up her chalk and leaned over to begin writing next to her sketch of the Upper Ward.

“First, Madam Toussaud’s. Trousers, shirt, suspenders, newsboy’s cap. Then the runner’s guild. Run the Upper Ward, check the paths. Find Teknar’s. Easy enough.”

Keyla clapped the chalk dust off her hands, then shoved the last piece of rye into her mouth as she rose. She patted her left pocket, ensuring her leather folder of lock-picks was present, then walked over to the back corner.

She unclasped the mechanism sealing the hatch to the sewer and lifted it. The distillery had been abandoned long enough that the tunnel simply smelled of the river it opened into, and old stone. The other factories around either used other, newer piping, or simply weren’t connected to her tunnel.

She made her way to the river ledge-way and up the ladder to the alley between Auldavulin’s and the paper mill next to it. It wasn’t quite dawn yet, so no workers were around.

She wove through the factories of the industrial district without encountering a guard patrol or any of the local gangs, which was odd. She’d never had much of a problem sticking to the shadows and avoiding the guards, but to not see any of the other street rats, even at this hour, was uncommon.

While her nerves had calmed with the physical activity, her pulse began to quicken again as she approached Madame Toussaud’s. She slipped into a back alley and crouched between sets of stacked, empty crates, and waited for the city to come alive.

Despite the lack of sleep, Keyla was as attentive and focused as ever. It wasn’t just the thought of the purse atop the priest’s desk that invigorated her, but the purpose and adventure. She always felt so sure of her place in the world when she had a goal. Margaan’s Diary was banned throughout all of Ryk. The impact that she was hired to acquire it gave her a sense of importance, as though she mattered.

She knew she didn’t. Street rats didn’t matter to anybody. Nevertheless, she felt like more than she was knowing she’d soon have her hands on something that could upend society. If she did a good enough job, she may even be able to squeeze the fat priest for more money. He certainly had enough of it.

She watched as citizens began their morning routines. Street-sweepers and lamplighters were replaced by shoppers as the day took hold in full.

It took longer than Keyla had hoped, but eventually an elderly couple who had been window shopping a few doors down made their way toward Madame Toussaud’s. This would be her chance!

Hunching her shoulders, lowering her head, and otherwise telling the world not to notice her, she moved from the alley to walk closely behind the couple, sticking to the woman’s shadow and matching their pace. Her fingers twitched at the thought of reaching for the older man’s pocket, but she clamped down on the idea and reminder herself: stick to the plan!

A bell chimed when the door to Madame Toussaud’s hit it. She crouched and moved behind a row of mannequins as the shopkeeper mid the couple a good morning.

Success! In and unnoticed, as planned.

Keyla weaved through aisles of shelving as she heard the other’s asking about a new suit for the gentleman. She tried not to let it go to her head, but everything was coming together smoothly as she nabbed item after item. A newsboy’s cap, a black and gray checkered shirt, and gray trousers.

She almost knocked a vase off the top shelf as she reached up for a pair of suspenders.

Stupid! You’re not out of here yet.

She was just through the door behind the counter when she heard the shopkeeper approaching

“Of course, you wait right there. I’ve just what you’re looking for in the back, I’ll be but a moment.”

Narn damn her!

Keyla’s eyes darted from side to side as she looked for a place to hide. None of the tables had any room under them due to all the boxes of fabric stored underneath. There were no other doors except the back door, but she was sure she’d be noticed if she tried to make a run for it.

There!

She stepped between a group of mannequins in various stages of dress and hugged the clothing she’d stolen to her chest, trying to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

Don’t see me, don’t see me, don’t see me! Keyla squeezed her eyelids shut and clenched her fists, repeating the plea over and over in her mind.

She heard Toussaud walk past her and she listened without risking the movement opening her eyes would require as the shopkeep rummaged through fabric and with a click of her tongue, apparently found what she was looking for.

Keyla waited and counted twenty heartbeats before she risked opening one eye. The room was empty. She exhaled slowly, ignoring the burning in her chest, and stepped out from between the mannequins. Silently thanking them for helping shroud her from sight she stepped over to the back door.

She’d acquired her current outfit from this store, and was familiar with the lock. Turning it, she slipped silently into the back alley. She set her spoils down on a crate next to the door and pulled out her leather lock-pick folder. She grabbed the torsion wrench and a medium hook and set to work resetting the lock from outside. It took her about thirty seconds to lock the door, theoretically eliminating the last piece of evidence that she’d been there beyond the missing inventory. Hopefully the old bat wouldn’t notice for a few days.

Once she’d put away the lock picks and picked up her new clothes, she found a discarded burlap sack in the alley’s trash heap that was a relatively recent addition and didn’t yet carry much scent, and pushed the clothing into it. The trip had taken longer than she’d hoped, and there likely wouldn’t be any pick-up work at the runner’s guild by this hour.

She’d have to try something different. Throwing the sack over her shoulder, Keyla began the long trek to the neighborhood just outside the Upper Ward.