A smirking crescent moon cast a thin pallor over the silent streets. Somewhere across the cityscape, the clock tower chimed the darkest hour, its notes wasted on the sleeping ears of upstanding citizenry. On the ears of the less honest, its notes marked only a moment to pause, to listen, to wait for stirring in beds, for the slumbering to settle back into their dreams.

In the empty streets, running footsteps scuffed and tripped. A sprig of laughter bloomed and faded with a hiss and a deep chuckle as two shadows darted across a courtyard, whirling through the twists and turns of the streets and alleys, unhindered by the thick darkness of night. They skidded to a stop on a street just across from the canal and ducked into the shadows beneath a stone staircase; save for their gasping whispers and stifled chuckles, no one passing could have ever known they were there. Not that anyone was passing at that hour.

"Shh!" A girl's voice, high but held quiet. "They'll find us!"

"We shook them half the city ago," a man's gruff voice whispered back. There was a scuffle, a shift of cloth, and the girl giggled, though the laugh was suddenly muffled with a sigh and the tell-tale smack of pressed lips.

"Come on," the man said, and the shadows—hands linked—bolted from the hiding spot and sprinted down the street.

As they ran, the hood of the smaller shadow fell back from her head, and the pale lamplight glinted across her hair and flashed on her smiling teeth. And then they were gone, back into the darkness.

They reappeared in a quiet part of the city just as dawn began breathing the first warmth of color into the dome of the night sky. Up a side staircase, through a pair of doors, down a hall lit only by low-burning oil lamps, and through another entryway into a darkened apartment: they disappeared inside, the shadows consuming them as if they belonged inside them. Boots scuffed on the wooden floor, heavy cloaks hissed as they were removed. A match flared, casting an orange glow across the tiny garret and throwing deep shadows over the angular face of the man stooping over the candle flame, only the glittering of the light's reflection indicating his eyes.

There wasn't much in the room besides a bed, a table and a pair of rickety chairs, and something that looked like a wooden mannequin with many arms propped up in the corner by a shaded window. The girl stood by the door, hanging her cloak on one of the several iron hooks. She wore black from head to toe, and the silver dagger at her hip glinted in the candlelight. Her hair was cropped short to her ears.

The man leaning over the candle watched her silently as he stood, his black-gloved hands pressing down on the table top, the vaguest curve lifting the edges of his hard-line lips.

When she turned and saw him watching, she laughed suddenly and even in the ruddy candlelight her blush was apparent. "What?"

He didn't say a word, but straightened, came around the table side to where she was, and stood looming his height over her for a moment while she stared up at him, waiting.

"What?" she said again, though her tone had softened from embarrassment to something more expectant.

"Mmm-hmm!" he grunted, and with a swift grab, snatched her up and tossed her over his shoulder as she let out a delighted shriek.

He carried her over to the bed, dumped her across the tangled blankets, and stood to tear off his shirt and gloves. The candle briefly illuminated a mischievous grin on his face before he snuffed it out between his fingertips.

Sunlight sliced across the dark garret room from the single window. In the corner bed, away from the bright square of illumination across the floor, she awoke slowly, blinking the light into her eyes. It was pleasant, at first, in the deep warmth of the sheets and the body beside her, the last remnants of sleep pressing her down, keeping her still. And for a moment, she thought perhaps the day would be a new day, free of all the things that had been plaguing her, dragging her down, opening up within her the bottomless, cold hollow that nothing seemed capable of filling.

But gradually the chill within her, the chill she had learned to smile through and never talk about, came back, and with it the shivering dread that the day had finally come that silence had to end. The cold within her clashed with the warmth of her physical self, and it made her too anxious to lie still any longer. Quietly, she slipped out of bed and put on her dark tunic which had been discarded to the floor. Half dressed, she crept to the window and squinted down at the street.

Carts and pedestrians already cluttered the courtyard beyond, as they always did, and through the glass pane she could hear the sales calls of the various merchants selling cheap trinkets and two-day old bread and the toss-off catches of the morning's fishermen. The chill within her tightened, twisting her stomach, even in the baking touch of the sunlight. She crouched, leaning her arms on the sill and her chin on her arms. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine drawing the heat of the day through her chest to that void inside, but even as she visualized it, she felt the heat touch the emptiness there and vanish as if it had never existed at all.

You have to tell him.

The sudden thought cut through her like a frozen knife, so sharp it made her catch her breath and open her eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest as if it might break through her ribs. Her head ached. She straightened and gripped the sill with both hands until her fingertips were white, trying to talk herself down through the moment's panic. Behind her, she heard the thief stir in bed, and she glanced back at him, afraid he might have awoken.

But he still slept.

I can't do this to him. I can't. She loved him. She knew that, without question, without doubt. But after so many years, after fighting the void and pretending it didn't exist, she could no longer deny that maybe love alone wasn't enough. And when Otto had come nearly a week ago to tell her that he'd finally worked out the strange magic Daphne's body had left behind when it vanished, when he'd told her he might have managed to create a portal back to her own world at long last, that she might be able to go home… Home…

Even in the warm little apartment she'd shared with the thief for what must have been a little over half a decade now, the thought of that other place which for so long she'd been able to put out of her mind because it had been so completely out of reach made her ache, and made the void within her even deeper. Since Otto's visit, it had become nearly unbearable. She thought about the portal all the time, thought about Daphne's laugh, about her family, about college plans, and summer trips, and cell phones, and air conditioning, and pizza…

And everything about the world she lived in now was so difficult. Survival, even with a partner, was a battle every day. Her only hope each night they went out to hunt and steal was that they would both make it back alive. They'd had some close calls in years past, but somehow they'd managed. They'd made it work.

Still, as she gazed back at the thief, sleeping so gently, she knew too that this wasn't the life she'd wanted for herself. Yes, she loved him. And she knew he loved her. But marriage was a strange thing in this city for those who lived most of their lives outside the law. Settling down, even moving out of the city, would never work for him. He had the city in his blood, and thieving was the only thing he had any interest in, besides her. As for any chance of children…even she couldn't justify it given their current situation. She wasn't even sure she could physically have them here. She hadn't had a cycle since she'd come to this world, and in some ways she wasn't surprised.

She sighed and padded softly to the bedside. She eased herself down beside him, and he murmured something, still mostly asleep. She brushed the hair back from his face, letting her fingertips linger at his temples. She knew he brushed ink into the hair there every few weeks, trying to hide the white that had grown in over the past years. Even now, she could see the ink stains fading away from the strands, leaving paler streaks of grey amidst his otherwise coal black hair. Recently, he'd even mentioned cutting his hair short; he said he thought it would be more practical, but she secretly suspected it was because he was trying to hide his aging.

He hadn't been more than seven years older than her when they'd first met, but while the passing years had taken their toll on him, they'd left her untouched. Whenever she caught her reflection in a shop window or in the smooth currents of the canal, she could see it. The years didn't touch her, here. It was as if she were perpetually frozen in time, unable to move forward like the rest of the world around her. Even Otto was aging; he was almost as tall as she was, now, and struggling to maintain an even voice between the high boy's voice she recognized and the startlingly deep man's voice that kept trying to ease its way out of him. Basso's little girl was already old enough to start learning to read. Sherry was older than her, now, and whenever she saw the barmaid—barkeeper, she reminded herself: Sherry ran her own tavern now—Sherry never let her forget it. It might not have bothered her so much except that she could see it bothered Raife immensely.

Home. It was so close, she could almost touch it, could touch it if she wanted to; she had only to go to the Keeper Compound, to Otto, and let him open the portal. But…

She brushed her palm against the thief's bristly cheeks, smiling at the noon-day shadow of a beard. He sighed, and she stooped, pressing her lips to his. His brow furrowed for a moment, but then she felt his arms come up around her, pulling her back down to him. When she managed to untangle herself, he lay back and smirked at her, the same self-satisfied smirk she recognized from what felt like so long ago.

"Morning," she said as he yawned and stretched.

"What time is it?"

"Probably nearly noon. The merchants look like they've been out for a while."

He grunted at that and closed his eyes again, stretching his arms back behind his head. "That was some run last night. If I'm not mistaken, that painting we snatched will fetch a good price with Pierre. I'll take it over to him later today and see what he'll give for it."

The chill inside her flared suddenly, and he must have seen something of it cross her face, because he frowned slightly as he watched her. "What is it? Something wrong?"

You have to tell him.

For half a moment, she nearly did, but looking into his open, waiting face, she felt herself shrivel away from it. "Not a thing," she said, and felt her heart sink when he took her word for it and let the frown vanish.

"I think we may need to revise our entry process," he said as he swung his legs out of bed and reached for his own discarded pants. Meg plucked them from the floor and handed them to him, then stood and crossed to the little shelf they used as a makeshift pantry to see what they had for food. "Those Westend-ers are starting to pick up on the second-floor window break-in, probably thanks to those amateur taffers from Old Quarter who don't have half a brain's idea of how to come up with their own techniques."

Meg chuckled at the mention of amateurs and tossed one of the apples from the shelf to the thief as he finished pulling on his shirt. "Well, then, I guess we'll just have to be more creative," she said.

The thief sauntered up behind her as he took a bite from the apple, eyeing her from head to toe. "You know, it's dangerous for a young lady like yourself to walk around half-naked in this part of town. A ruffian might get the wrong idea."

"Oh, might he?" She managed to dodge the slip of his arm around her waist to snatch up her own pants from the floor nearby. "I better be more careful, then."

She dressed and belted the tunic like she always wore it, and then dropped into one of the two chairs at their little table. The goods from the night before were still in a pile beneath it, and she took the moment to transfer the clinking pouches they'd nabbed onto the tabletop, leaving the other fence-able goods below for later inventory. The thief sat himself down on the other side of the table and finished the apple while she emptied the coin contents of each bag into the center and started to count them into tidy piles of ten.

She could feel him studying her as she worked, but she didn't look up for fear that the chill would show through her eyes somehow. I have to tell him. Otto's waiting. The door is there.

When Otto had first told her that he might be able to reverse-create a spell that would take her wherever Daphne had gone, she'd been beside herself. Everyday had been an agony waiting to hear if he'd made any progress, if the portal could be done, if she could get home. But after a few weeks, it became painfully clear that it would take a great deal of time and study and energy before they had anything like a usable spell. The scraps he'd managed to record from the place where Daphne's body had disappeared were scanty at best, and didn't coincide with any pagan or Hammerite or Keeper magic. It was a wholly new kind of magic, and he wasn't even sure he could work with it.

"This is something we've never seen before," he'd told her at the time, probably irritable that she kept interrupting his work with her incessant checking on his progress. "It's going to take a while, so don't hold your breath. Even if I can piece it together and create something worthwhile, there's no guarantee it'll work as a portal spell. I'm casting in the dark, here."

She'd been staying with the Keepers at that time, but being cooped up among the silent scholars and their monastic lifestyle only made her waiting more intolerable. Everyday was the same, and none of them seemed to bring her any closer to going home. So when the thief had dropped by one night, as he had a habit of doing from time to time, secretly scaling the walls and slipping through the window to her room, she'd taken up her few belongings and gone with him, leaving only a brief note to Otto to let him know where he could find her if he ever made any progress.

A little over five years ago, that was, and now, when she'd found a way to live with the void inside, when she'd managed to pass most days without constantly thinking about Daphne, without longing for her family and her friends, when she'd finally found a way to cry silently when she had to so Raife never knew how exhausted and isolated she felt, Otto sends her a private note by glyph magic letting her know the portal is ready, that she can leave, that home is within reach…

"Something is wrong." Raife caught her off guard, snapping her from her private thoughts which she swore she'd kept hidden from any visible sign on her face. "What is it?"

You have to tell him.

She moistened her dry lips, but couldn't bring herself to look at him. "It's nothing," she said.

The thief cocked his head to the side and frowned. "Well, that was a pitiful lie."

"I'm not lying!" It was more of a growl than she'd intended, and she knew the moment it flew from her that everything was about to slip through her fingers. She could feel it sliding already, just from the annoyed look on Raife's face at being yelled at. She was picking a fight, and she didn't want to, but she wasn't sure how to stop it.

"You think I can't tell? I'm the one who taught you how." He smirked, and that stung her.

"I know you can't." But she wasn't sure. Had he noticed the void in her smile, or in her laughter, or when she kissed him? She'd tried so hard to hide it, to push it away, for herself and for his sake, but maybe she hadn't hidden it as well as she thought.

"Oh, no? And how do you know that?" He shifted forward in his seat, assuming the position she had now come to associate with the beginning of a real out-and-out fight. It wasn't like they never argued, never fought about things. Theirs had always been a charged relationship, swinging from bliss to fury in moments. He'd never physically hurt her, and she'd never physically hurt him, but some of their screaming matches had been brutal if bloodless. And she didn't want that, not now, not when that doorway hovered so ready just out of her line of sight.

She didn't want to fight. Already, she felt exhausted, the void draining her of any ferocity she might otherwise have managed to stoke up to face off with him. But she was too tired from the battle within herself to battle anyone else.

"I don't," she said with a sigh, leaning her head against her hands. "It's nothing. Really. Can we just not—"

"Meg." His glower was piercing. "What is going on?"

Tell him.

She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. This wasn't how she wanted to tell him. But what other chance would she get? If she lied about it now, it would only hurt him more later when she finally admitted it. Maybe it wouldn't even hurt him that much. Maybe he did know what she'd been going through the past few years, and maybe he'd already prepared himself for this moment. It was possible, wasn't it?

Her mouth was as dry as a sun-baked stone. "Otto… Otto finished it," she whispered. It was clumsy and she felt stupid after she'd said it, but she wasn't sure how else she could have broached the subject.

"Finished what?"

She could feel the thief watching her, tensed as a coiled wire. "The doorway. The…" She took a deep breath and pushed it out. "…the portal that will take me home."

The stillness that gradually overtook the room was like a hard winter frost crusting everything it touched in ice. The void within her yawned wider, and she felt tears beginning to gather behind her closed eyelids. Raife was so silent it was as if she were completely alone in the room, holding her breath in the emptiness.

Then she heard his chair scrape back as he stood up and began pacing. Back and forth, she listened to his footsteps cross the tiny room, over and over, until she finally forced herself to open her eyes and look up at him. Back and forth, he strode. She could see the muscles in his neck tensed, could see his jaw working as he fought to keep from grinding his teeth. He didn't look at her, but kept his eyes pinned on whichever wall he was facing, unblinking, his hands laced behind his neck.

She felt as if she had a bubble of air pushing her heart back against her spine, but no depth of sigh could release it. She wanted to get up, to go to him, to wrap her arms around him and kiss him, and tell him it was all just a terrible joke, and she never intended to leave, and why don't they just go see Pierre and find out about that painting. But that would be a lie, and he would know it, and that would only make things worse.

It was the first time she'd admitted to herself, without hedging or doubts or contingencies, that she was leaving. Whether he accepted it or not, she would go. She had to. The void within her, and the proof of agelessness: it demanded that she go home. With all her heart she hoped she'd find Daphne there, safe and sound, and that no time at all would have passed since they'd fallen into the game. But if Daphne wasn't there, if she really was… Megan shivered but swallowed down the word she couldn't even bear to think. If she really was gone, forever, in both worlds, then the only thing she could do was go home and live her normal life for Daphne, give Daphne's parents some closure even if she had to make up some terrible kidnapping story to explain where the two of them had been for so long. It had to be done. It wasn't just about herself, anymore. She owed it to Daphne to fix this once and for all.

Raife's pacing stopped suddenly, and when he spoke, she heard the gruffness he was barely keeping at bay in his voice. "You promised me you'd stay."

"I know."

"You lied to me."

Megan looked up at him, noting both the anger and anguish in his expression. "I never thought I'd get the chance," she whispered, then, hoping to explain, added quickly, "Raife, for the past few years I've—"

"I don't care." The tone of his voice cut her off sharply, and the hurt in his expression had slipped away behind the anger. "I don't care what excuses you've come up with. You lied to me. You made me a promise, and I believed you."

The anger got under her skin, and she felt herself flush with her own irritation. "I didn't know what I was saying. I was distraught. I thought Daphne had just died, and—"

"She did die!"

She flinched and jumped up from her chair. "Don't say that! You don't know that!"

Then the thief laughed. It was a harsh, mean laugh—a chuckled scoff pushed through a sneer—and it set her off. Before she'd even thought about it, she'd snatched up a handful of silver coins from the table and flung them at him. The attack caught him so off guard, a few actually struck him, but most flew past to ricochet off the wall, one cracking the windowpane.

Two small red spots flushed on his sun-brown cheeks as he turned toward her, shoulders hunched like a dog, teeth bared. "Hey, now—"

"Don't you dare laugh at me!" Megan snatched up another handful of coins, not really sure if she intended to throw them, or simply because that look on his face scared her and she needed something to cling to.

But he must have thought she was going to throw them again, because in half a second he flew around the table, caught her by the wrist and forcibly tore the coins free of her grip. "Don't pick a fight you can't win," he whispered hoarsely. In the slight tussle, some of his hair had come loose from the tie at the nape of his neck, and fell in front of his glowering eyes.

It was like looking at a dangerous stranger, in that moment, and it terrified her so much, Megan burst into tears. She hated it, hated crying in front of him, but after so many months of holding the void at bay, she couldn't bear it anymore, and once she'd let the first burst escape, there was no power in any world that could have held it back.

The tears seemed to catch him off guard, because his grip on her wrist loosened, then fell away, and soon his arms were around her, his chin resting on her head, squeezing her so tightly she almost couldn't breathe. She wasn't sure for how long she cried, and at the end, she didn't feel any better. The void was still there, the ache was still overwhelming, only now her eyes stung and her nose was stuffy. She was sitting, and Raife was beside her, his arms still around her, though his embrace was gentler, more tentative now.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean—I didn't want to…"

Megan shook her head, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "It's not you. I—I should have told you about it years ago. I just… I was so scared that if you knew, you'd think I didn't love you."

His arms slipped away from her, and when she looked over at him, she saw him sitting, slumped as if exhausted, staring out at the window as if something there fixed his attention. He didn't say anything. He only sat and stared, and the weariness made him look so much older, so much more worn down.

"Raife," she whispered. "I do love you. I just… I can't stay here. You know I can't. You must see it."

He frowned down at his clasped hands, but still he didn't look at her. "I thought you were happy here."

"I was…most of the time."

"That's what you meant, when you said I couldn't tell when you were lying. Because you've been hiding this from me all along. How unhappy you really were. And I couldn't see it."

Her chest ached with each beat of her heart like someone was driving a nail into her breastbone. "I didn't want you to worry."

He let out a soft scoff at that, but a slight, sad smile played over his face. "You didn't want me to worry. But I was too wrapped up in myself and my own happiness to realize you were miserable."

The sad smile hardened to a flat line as he rose to his feet. Meg tried to catch his hand, but he drew it away. At the door, he took his cloak from the hook and swung it around his shoulders.

"Where are you going?" she asked. She stood, half-thinking she might go, too, but something in his posture, in his expression, made it clear he did not want her with him.

"I don't know yet," he said, pulling on his boots. "But I'd suggest you don't wait up for me. I might be a while."

And with that, he flung open the door, stepped out into the hall, and slammed it behind him, leaving her alone and cold in the warm, sunlit room.

He didn't leave immediately. He hesitated, which was stupid, because it only meant he heard the absolute stillness behind the door. He waited, holding his breath, for any sound at all that might break the spell fixing him in place. A cry, a sob, a scream…anything. But it was as silent as a tomb behind him. He tried to imagine what she must be doing, how she must be standing, staring at the door. Did she know he was just outside? Could she hear that he hadn't left yet?

But if she knew he was there, why didn't she come to the door? Why didn't she call after him? Try to stop him? But there was only resigned silence behind him.

She's letting me go, he thought. A muscle in his jaw twitched violently. Well, I'll go then! He exhaled with a gust and forced himself to start down the too-bright hallway.

Once he hit the street, however, he felt lost. He hadn't really planned his next step, hadn't really even let himself process what had just happened. He thought briefly that he might go to Black Alley and see about Pierre's fine-art rates, but the thought of mundane business made him itchy and irritable. He needed to do something, but what was there for him to do at such an early hour of the day? Even twilight was a long way off.

He wasn't sure why he picked Sherry's tavern, of all taverns, but he found a booth in the dark back corner where he hoped the proprietress—if she was even in this early—wouldn't spot him. One of the barmaids brought him his ale, and he paid with two silver coins. Even as he placed them in her waiting palm, he realized they were the ones Megan had thrown at him. He snatched his hand back from them.

"Keep the rest," he muttered, and the girl took the coins with a wink and a flounce of her skirt.

The ale was bitter and tepid, but he drank it fast and ordered another. And another. And another, which got the whole place spinning around him, sunken in its murky low light. He leaned his arms on the tabletop and laid his head upon them, just for a moment, to rest his weary eyes…

…and awoke to a sharp poke in the shoulder as a woman in slightly finer clothes than the wenches slid into the seat across from him. She wore a tight smirk and kept her head tilted to look down her nose at him.

"Aw, look who it is getting drunk before dark," Sherry said as her smirk widened into a rather mean smile.

Raife glared at her. "I forgot this was your place," he muttered.

"Sure you did." But at least the smile faded slightly. "Where's your little shadow? Or is she why you're here so early?"

He pushed himself up in the seat, head still reeling. How much had he already had? He'd lost count after the third. He was tired of sitting, but didn't want to risk standing and stumbling like a drunkard in front of Sherry. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"So, that's a yes, I take it." She tilted his ale mug and lifted her brows at the remaining dregs. "You actually finished this one. I'm surprised. I've seen guys twice your size and ten years younger drop beneath the table after four, but this makes…well, seven if Cora's count is to be trusted, which between you and me," she said, dropping her tone to a conspiratorial whisper, "I wouldn't bet on it. I'll be generous and say it's probably number five."

Raife raked his fingers back through his hair, and rubbed his hands over his chin, his cheeks, his eyes, trying to wipe the deadening drunkenness from his face. His cheeks felt rough without a shave. I must look like a beggar, he realized, and that made him grit his teeth and will himself to sit as upright as he could manage.

"So let me guess," Sherry said, sitting back with her arms crossed beneath her barely covered bosom. "She realized she looked ridiculous running around the city with a guy who at first glance could pass for her father?"

"Can't you just leave me alone, just this once?" He'd tried to growl it, but he heard the plea inside the annoyed tone.

Sherry squinted at him for a long moment, but the scrutiny softened as she looked at him, even as he tried to intensify the glare he was giving her in return.

"Oh," she said, then, her voice devoid of the earlier mockery. "Oh, I—She actually left you. Didn't she?"

He didn't have to answer, but when he heard her say it like that, he felt the strength in his spine suddenly vanish, and he had to lean against the table to remain upright. "Not yet. But she will. Soon."

"Must have been some fight."

He shook his head, and it felt as if there were an ocean inside his skull, sloshing from one side to the other with each shift in direction. "No, it's…Otto—he made some kind of portal for her. She says it'll take her home, wherever that is."

Sherry frowned, picking at a loose splinter of wood sticking up from the edge of the table. "Like…where Daphne…?"

Raife sighed. "Daphne's dead. You all saw her die."

"Megan thought maybe she'd survived somehow. In their world, or something."

"I don't know," Raife muttered, pressing his palms against his dry eyes. They stung like he hadn't slept in a week. When he let his hands fall from his face, he blinked and shook his head, slower this time than before. "I don't know. But she's going, and that's it. That's all. Doesn't seem to care what I think about it, so there here I am. You are free to laugh at me now. Go on. You always knew it would end, didn't you? Always teased her about it, always reminded me what a fool I looked like, hanging around a girl who never aged?"

The ex-barmaid let out a long sigh of her own. "I'm sorry," was all she said, and the look of sincerity on her face just about broke him in his drunken state.

He wished he was sober, or more sober. As it was, he managed to swallow down the lump that threatened to choke him and suck in a deep breath through his nostrils, which was enough to clear his head a little.

"Here," she said, sliding out of the booth. "I'll get you something to eat. Just give me a second." Then she was gone, snapping her fingers for the nearest bar wench, and barking orders to the slop chef out back. It only took a few minutes before he had a roasted potato, a slab of thick bread and butter, and something bracken and foul steaming in a short mug.

"It's called coffee," Sherry told him when she returned and saw him sniffing the fumes with distrust. "Fresh off the boat from the Spice Islands. You'll get used to it, trust me. And once you do, you'll never think twice about pulling a long night's shift, I can promise you that."

He took a sip and just about spat it back out, but it did feel good to have something hot in his stomach, so he choked down a bit more of it before turning his attention to the food. Sherry watched him thoughtfully as he ate, but said nothing, until he was nearly finished. It seemed the nasty stuff in the mug had actually helped ease him somewhat out of his stupor, though it made his heart race in his chest.

"So she's definitely going, then?" Sherry said softly. "Back where they came from?"

He nodded, frowning at the last bit of bread he pinched in his fingers, suddenly unable to even think of swallowing another bite. "So she says."

She leaned forward. "Then what are you doing wasting time here?"

He didn't want to try to explain it, especially not in his current—even if improving—state. He wasn't sure he could make it sound sensible, or convey how much the idea of facing Megan again terrified him. But he didn't have to say anything.

"You're being a coward," Sherry muttered. "You're hiding, aren't you? Too shit-scared to deal with a silly little girl for another, what, another day? A week? Did she say when she was leaving?"

"I didn't ask."

"Why not?" Sherry's upper lip twisted into a sneer of disgust, and once more she was looking down her nose at him. "You're pathetic, you know that? Ever since I met you, you've been trying to prove how tough you are, but when it comes to your girlfriend leaving you, you're a mess. Why? You think she won't find another guy back there in her own world? Somebody who gets her stupid references? And you'll find some other girl, too. Trust me. Though you're vain enough to try to hide those grays, there are more than a few women in this city who would find you very attractive. And that's coming from me," she added, looking surprised at herself, "and you know how much I hate to give you any kind of compliment. I'm not trying to buck you up here, I'm just telling you the truth. Life goes on. Get over it."

His glare didn't seem to have any affect on her whatsoever.

"You know what you need to do?" she said.

"I have a feeling you're about to tell me, whether I—"

"You should go back to her." She stabbed her finger to the table. "Right now. Go back to her, pick some of those damned blossoms from the trees by the canal or something, or whatever it is that will make her all gooey-eyed at how romantic you're being. Then give it to her so good she'll never forget you, no matter what loser she finds elsewhere in the future." She slapped her palm against the table with a bark of laughter. "That'll show her."

Raife stared at her for a moment, then shaking his head, slid out of the seat. "Of all the taverns I could have picked…"

"It's a good idea."

He headed for the door. "I could have gotten drunk in the street. Even a pack of City Guards wouldn't be this much of a pain in my—"

"You'll thank me!" Sherry shouted after him, just before the door clipped her voice off behind him as it swung shut.

#

It was twilight by then, and the air had chilled enough to leech the sleep from his eyes and the drunkenness from his head. Sharp and itching to do something after the wasted afternoon, he spent most of the night scouting future targets. A new jewelers had foolishly opened up down by the docks, with adjoining warehouse storage. Even if all they kept in back-stock were plain gold settings, he could make a tidy sum. An anchored ship within swimming distance, and sporting an abundance of hired muscle caught his eye. No one guarded a ship that heavily unless there was something extremely valuable onboard. He even followed a drunken lordling back to the gates of his manor, noting the position of the windows nearest the high stone wall and the convenient wooden ledges near it which would so easily lend itself to the bite of an arrowhead.

It had grown late by the time he headed back to the apartment. He hoped she'd be asleep, and that he could slip in without notice, avoiding any further discussion or argument for the time being. He tried not to think about what would happen tomorrow, or the day after, or how he could convince her to stay, or what he would do if she refused. Instead, he filled his mind with calculations and risk factors for the various targets he'd identified.

He kept his eyes on the ground, until at one isolated corner beneath a streetlamp he glanced up for his bearings and came face to face with a glowering version of his own face sketched in ink. The parchment was pinned to the wall among a line of others, all whispering and crinkling in the light breeze, causing the images to flash in and out of shadow. The thief let out a low chuckle and tore down the sheet to examine it closer. Above the bold WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE and a list of his grievances—he was delighted to see they'd thought the great City Museum heist was his to claim—his portrait seemed to dare citizens to try and stop him.

The likeness wasn't half bad, really. He had to give the City Guard's artists credit for that. Though they'd made him look broader in the jaw than he was in reality, they'd captured something in the shadowed eyes and the line of the mouth. He was quite impressed. Flattered, really, that they thought he looked so menacing.

I think there's a bare wall in our apartment that could play host to this. The sudden use of the plural drained the humor from him as he folded and tucked the wanted poster into his shirt. Once upon a time, he might have given the portrait to her as a joking gift, but he doubted she'd be amused now.

He was just about to walk away when another poster caught his eye and stopped him cold. It was Megan, or something like her. He recognized the curve of her cheek, the fall of her hair, even something of the features, but in all other regards it was completely wrong. A cruel smirk contorted her charcoal lips, and the eyes almost glowed with delighted malice. The thief stared at the image, unable to reconcile the wicked looking woman in black and white with the silly girl who had run with him the past few years.

Footsteps rang along the street, and he thought he heard men's voices—possibly a City Guard patrol—approaching. Snatching the second poster, he ducked away from the streetlamp and around the corner, and kept moving until he was sure he'd put enough distance between himself and any unwanted companionship. Then, at the corner of an unlit alley, he stopped again, leaning into the light of a guttering torch mounted to the stoop of a locked doorway. The ruddy light from the fire cemented the inaccuracies of the portrait. The flame dripped, and an ember nipped at the corner of the page, chewing through it with blackening bites. Raife snuffed out the edge, but smeared soot across the page. The breeze plucked at the poster as if to slip it out of his grasp.

WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE, it read. Just like his. Armed and extremely dangerous. He almost laughed aloud and leaned back against the wall. Megan was anything but dangerous, though at least he could say with confidence that he'd armed her with a few survival skills that had on more than one occasion kept her—and him—alive. But she always hesitated when it came to hand-to-hand combat, even against thugs or other thieves they'd had the misfortune of bumping into from time to time. She could survive a fight, yes, but to describe her as extremely dangerous? That was a bit sensationalist, even for the City Guard.

Raife smirked down at the sneering image and shook his head slowly. They had her all wrong. But what does that matter to them? They'll arrest her or kill her the first chance they get, because this is the girl they see when they look at her.

The breeze tugged at the charred corner of the picture, played with the loose strands of his hair. He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. He could still hear her voice ringing in his ears, I don't belong here. You must see that!

The night was full of quiet noises. The buzzing of the streetlamps, the gurgle of the canal, the scurry of rats and mice and the gentle pattering of family banners slapping the high stone walls where the breeze stirred the air. It was crisp and cold and still, but not empty. He had never been lonely in the streets at night, never lost or wandering as he was now.

He opened his eyes and gazed up at the spattering of stars he could see through the ledges of the rooftops. This was his world. It had always been his. All of his successes, all of his failures, were dealt to him by this city. It was his whole life.

And he remembered the time, so long ago, when that life had been turned upside down by two silly girls suddenly appearing out of nowhere in front of him. He couldn't stop himself from smirking, thinking of their wide eyes, of their fumbling attempts to tie a rope arrow around a window pillar, of Megan's jump to safety—surprising, now that he knew her and how clumsy she was most of the time—and his lunge to drag Daphne out of the window and out into the open air before either of them were skewered by City Guard swords.

He remembered the guard's house and meeting the snotty kid who would become a Keeper, and waiting with Megan for Daphne to return, irritated by her anxiety. He remembered running from the undead, remembered running from Hammerites and City Guard, and failing to escape them. He remembered finding himself in Pavelock, knowing without doubt that his neck was on the hangman's line. That stupid gas bomb she'd thrown had nearly knocked him senseless, but she'd released him, despite how angry at him she'd been at the time. That was the girl the City Guards should have drawn on the poster. The girl terrified of her own rage, who would let a target go before she'd even achieved her goal, simply because she couldn't bear the thought of hurting innocent people, and as far as she was concerned, in the right circumstances, the Trickster himself could be innocent.

The thief opened his eyes and looked back down at the page, unable to recognize the face drawn upon it. This isn't her. And it never had been, no matter what part of him had hoped the city would take her in as it had taken him in so many years ago. But she didn't need the city like he did. This wasn't her world. It was his.

The poster tore between his hands as he shredded it to pieces and released the paper flakes to the street. They fluttered across the cobblestones as the breeze drove them onward and away from him into the night.

She waited for him for three days, but at dawn on the third, Megan rose, strapped her sliver dagger—the one he'd bought for her as a gift after she'd proven to him that she could use one well—to her hip, and clasped her own cloak around her shoulders, drew up the hood, and went out into the gradually lightening street. The air was still cold from the night, but warm enough that her breath didn't fog the air.

She went to the Keeper Compound. She still knew where to find the secret entryways marked by glyphs, and soon she was walking through the narrow hallways, cutting across wide-open libraries and study halls, and finally making her way up a series of spiraling stone staircases to Otto's quarters. A light knock on the heavy door was met with a deep request for a moment, and then the hinges squeaked softly and the youth stood there in his Keeper robes.

It almost made her smile, seeing him like that. After all that whining and complaining about how much he wanted to be a thief, would rather be using his gift for magic to steal trinkets from spoiled rich citizens, in the end, he wound up becoming the youngest practicing Keeper in the history of the Order. Artemus had told her once privately that the kid stood an excellent chance at becoming the future First Keeper, and seeing him now in his dark robes and that serious expression on his face, she could almost imagine it. His brow and jaw had already started to widen, and age agreed with him. Someday, she suspected, he'd be quite attractive, though to tell him anything like that would probably go to his head; Keeper or not, he was still occasionally an arrogant little prick.

"I was starting to wonder if you'd ever come," he said, stepping aside to let her enter. "My mother gives her regards, by the way. What took you so—" His voice cracked and warbled when he saw the Don't Ask face she gave him, and cleared his throat. "Anyway, I think I've got it bent into a portal spell. It wasn't easy, and there are no guarantees, of course, but…"

He pointed to a patch of bare wall between two bookshelves where once upon a time she thought there might have been a tapestry of some kind. Drawing closer, she could see faint glimmering lines and symbols creating a door-sized archway.

"When will you be able to tell if it works?" she asked.

Otto grinned, and she recognized that little twinkle of pride in his eyes. "Oh, it'll work. As to how it'll work, give me a drop of your blood and we'll find out."

"A drop of my blood?"

"This spell only works off life-force energy," he said, crossing the room to his little desk and there picking up a slender pen knife, "and it's only going to link to where Daphne is if it uses the energy of someone like her. If your blood doesn't trigger it to open…" He turned the knife gently in his hand and gave her a slight shrug. "Maybe nothing will. But—" he added before she could say anything, "I'm sure it'll do something. It might only unlock your existence here and allow you to age like the rest of us, or it might allow you to communicate with that other side. Even if it does work, I'm almost positive that it'll only work for you. It may not even allow any objects from this world to pass through. As much as I hate to admit it, I really won't know until we try it. But that's better than nothing, right?"

Megan slipped off her cloak and dagger, and placed both at the foot of his bed as she nodded. It was better than nothing, but the thought that it might not work, that it might not take her back… What with Raife off who knew where, probably hating her now, and Basso off in another city with Genevieve and little Jeanette, and she and Sherry still only barely tolerating one another, there wasn't much left for her in this city. She could stay with Otto and the Keepers, but if she still couldn't age… Would that mean an eternity of watching her friends grow old and die without her? What kind of a life was that?

Well, there's always the messier way, if that's what worked for Daphne. At least if I can find out if she's alive or not, it'll make that decision a lot easier.

Otto held out the hilt of the pen knife to her. "Just prick your fingertip. I don't need much."

Megan took the blade and admired its delicate, almost academic styling. It was a scholar's weapon if she ever saw one; she could almost imagine it in a little wooden box set in the journaling section of a Barnes & Noble bookstore. Cautiously, she drew her fingertip across the blade, and immediately a trio of crimson droplets pearled along the metal edge.

"That'll do it," Otto said, taking the blade from her and handing her a handkerchief to wrap around her finger. "Sharp, isn't it?"

It was shocking the amount of blood that seeped into the white fabric as she squeezed her finger in her fist. "I didn't even feel it."

"The Keepers have some excellent connections with city craftsmen. It's amazing some of the things they can get their hands on." He chuckled as he stood by the inactive gateway and touched the blood-tipped knife to the side posts and what would be the keystone of a physical archway. "I have to say, that's one of the reasons I gave up wanting to be a thief. When you can go anywhere, get anything, at just the touch of a spell, it takes away some of the excitement of sneaking around. I mean, some of the gold work I've seen around this place would make Raife—"

He seemed to hear his mistake the moment he said it, and he quickly shut up, cleared his throat, and cast what almost passed for an apologetic look over his shoulder. When he turned back to the portal, he said, "You know, this magic is really something else. It's almost more mathematical than it is linguistic. I mean, there are language qualities to it, to be sure: commands and responses that if not correct just loop back on themselves or tear everything else apart. But it's extremely pragmatic in ways languages often aren't. It's…well, it's rather beautiful," he said with a nervous laugh. "It's something I'm going to study more, regardless. I've only just scratched the surface, but I have a feeling that if I keep working at it, I'll find out that this weird magic is foundational in our world. Maybe even creates the patterns by which this world exists. Like I said, I've only gotten a glimpse, but it'll take more time before I really understand much of it."

The script on the wall had begun to glow and pulse, not blue like a regular glyph doorway, but white and radiant. The doorway inside the script fogged, shivered, and then the stones were gone, replaced by pooling white smoke at first, and then, gradually, shapes began to take focus.

A sound reverberated through the little room, wobbling as if spoken through water or the back of a fan. Echoing strangely, but somehow sounding familiar. Megan felt her heart jump up into her throat, and she squeezed her hands into fists, ignoring the sting of her finger.

Again, the wobbling voice, but this time, it was clearer, and the images through the portal had sharpened. "Meg?"

The white smoke faded, and through the solid stone wall, she could see—

"Daphne!" Megan clapped her hands and almost jumped up and down seeing her friend's smiling face beaming back at her. "You're okay! You're alive!"

"Alive?" Daphne lifted an eyebrow. Then, after a moment, the silly grin faded and her friend quickly wrapped her arms around herself. "Oh…Oh, Meg. The Trickster and Thornwick and everything… Is everybody okay? Did everyone else make it? Where are you?"

"Keeper Compound," Megan said. She could already feel the void beginning to seal itself shut, to fill itself in with all the life she could see through that portal. "Otto created a doorway after you… Daphne, it's been like five years since that fight with the Trickster! But yeah, everyone else is fine!"

"Five years?" Daphne balked. "Holy crap! I seriously just woke up a second ago. It feels like I was just there! Where is everybody?"

"Well, I'm here, thanks for noticing," Otto grumbled in his deep voice, moving a little closer to Meg.

Daphne stared at him for a moment and then let out a squeak and clapped her hand over her mouth. "Holy crap! Otto! No way! You're like—you're like—totally cute!"

The kid blushed about ten shades of pink and quickly scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, thanks," he said, grinning, though his voice broke halfway through and making him add a tint of fire-engine red to the tips of his ears.

"And Sherry? And Raife? What about Basso and Garrett?"

Even the thought of the thief couldn't bring Megan's soaring heart back down to the ground. "Sherry's fine—she misses you a ton, of course, but she's doing great. She's got her own tavern over in Shalebridge now. Raife is…well, he's Raife. You know." She coughed and shrugged quickly. "Basso's little girl is so big, you wouldn't even believe it! He and Genevieve live outside the city. And get this: he makes locks now! Nearly un-pickable locks, which might I just add, are a pain in the butt. Raife and I hit a few—" She stopped quickly, but Daphne had already gotten that mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"Oh, you and Raife, eh? Spending some quality time together, are we? I like your hair, by the way."

Megan felt herself flush, but tried to ignore it. "Anyway, as for Garrett… Well, I know he survived the battle with the Trickster, but he's been keeping a very low profile since then."

"Even Artemus hasn't seen him in more than a year," Otto put in, "at least, not that he's admitted to anybody else. I have a feeling the old thief is alive and well, but nobody knows where. For all we know, he could be hanging out in this compound playing First Keeper, but somehow I doubt that."

"Yeah, me too," Daphne said with a chuckle. "Wow, five years… Seriously, it's only been a minute out here. Maybe less than that. We must have knocked over your can of Coke when we got sucked in, because it's still dripping onto the carpet. It's like we never left!"

"Thank goodness," Megan said with a sigh. For the first time in years, she felt truly relieved. She turned to Otto, who had once more approached the portal and was scrutinizing the script with some intensity. "So, will it work? Can I go through?"

He took a step back and frowned thoughtfully at the shifting script. "Yeah," he said, his frown gradually warming to a delighted grin. "Yeah, I think you can. It's working just like I'd hoped it would. All the lines of the spell are communicating properly." He turned towards her and held out his arms. "You're good to go!"

With a squeal of delight, Megan threw her arms around the kid and squeezed until he squawked that he couldn't breathe. Tears welled up in her eyes as she let him go, rumpling his hair as she did so. "I am going to miss you so damned much," she said. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

The kid blushed a little, but smiled. "Geez, get off my back. I'll be fine. I always am, aren't I?"

"Give him a smack upside the head for me!" Daphne called, and the kid ducked with a laugh when Megan swatted at him.

Then Megan turned toward the gateway. It was so bright on the other side. She had forgotten how dark the thief world was. There was a breeze there; she could hear the soft whispers of shifting air through the leaves beyond the open window. Birds twittered far away. Cicadas buzzed. The scent of summer-warmed sawdust drifted through the portal to her, and she breathed it in, flooding her head with its familiarity. The office chair at the computer lay toppled on its side. Piles of Java, C++, and HTML books lay in piles beside the desk. Several CDs lay shiny-side up on the floor, catching the shifting sunlight in bright pulses. A small puddle had formed on the white carpet where an overturned can of Coke had leaked from the desktop onto the floor. It was still dripping.

Mom is going to kill you if that stains. The ridiculously mundane thought made Megan giggle as the tears of relief streamed down her cheeks. She brushed them away with her palm, forcing herself to choke down the rest of the tears that wanted to break free. All she had to do was step through…

"I was right about it only working for you," Otto said beside her. He held up the pen knife and she noticed that half the blade was gone as if it had been sliced through by a laser. "The blood made it through, but not the knife. Even now, you're the only thing keeping it open from our side. Once you go through, the portal will close behind you for good."

Go, something deep within her whispered, but she hesitated, glancing toward the window leading out to the rest of the thief world, the world she would never see again like this.

I never got to tell him goodbye. He won't even know I'm gone.

"Come on!" Daphne cried, and Megan felt herself shiver with a leap of hope.

"Tell him I'll miss him," she said softly, then shook her head. "No. Don't tell him that. I—" She wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed, as if her own embrace could somehow give her the strength to let go. "I don't know what I'd say to him. Maybe that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. And that I loved him so much, and still do. That I wish he'd understand why I have to do this."

Beside her, Otto had taken on a look she was beginning to associate with him more than the cocky smirk; it was a gentle, sober look, the kind of expression she could more easily imagine on the face of someone like Artemus, and suspected it might have originated there. A caring, thoughtful look only a Keeper could truly wear.

"He'll be okay," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "He'll mope, and he'll probably be somewhat intolerable to be around for a while, but he'll move on. He's lived his whole life as a survivor. He'll survive this, too. And so will you."

Meg let out a little sob of a laugh and hugged the kid again. "God, when did you become so wise?" she muttered into his neck.

"What are you talking about? I've always been this wise. You just never listened to me."

She squeezed him and drew back. "Yeah, you keep telling yourself that."

"Go on," Otto said, nudging his head towards the portal. "Daphne's waiting."

Megan turned toward the door, and with one deep breath, she ran, leapt, flew through some strange damp mistiness that crackled with electricity, and then crashed into Daphne's open arms. Both girls toppled to the floor with a squeal of laughter, and the shimmering portal in the plain white wall of the computer room flickered, sputtered, and winked out, leaving them just where they belonged.

Home. Home again, at last.

The instant the portal vanished, Otto sighed and turned to face the lurker in the shadows. "For a second there, I thought you were going to say something. But maybe it's for the best."

The thief peeled himself out of the darkness. He gazed at the charred remains of the script arch on the wall, his jaw set and his face devoid of expression. "Like you said, she'll survive. And so will I."

"If it's any consolation, you still have me." The kid gave him a wide grin, which managed to curve the corner of the thief's lips upward slightly.

"It's not."

The thief moved to the door, his cloak whispering against the floorboards. He had his hand on the latch when the boy said, "Oh, and Raife…" The thief paused, frowned back over his shoulder. "The Keeper Council would like to see you."

The thief's jaw muscles twitched and he drew a little deeper into the shadows of his hood. "Would they, now?"

"Don't worry," Otto said, cocking his head to the side, "they're not out to punish you. In their books, you more than cleared your name when you helped them eliminate the Trickster and the other… challenges. But they might have a task for you, if you're willing. Garrett's playing hard to get, and you more than anyone know that some things are really best left in the hands of a professional. We need your help."

"I think I've had my fill of Keepers for a while," Raife growled. "No offense, kid."

"Just think about it. You know where to find me."

The thief turned, his hand resting on the door handle, but he didn't leave immediately. After a pause, he glanced back over his shoulder. "What kind of job is it?"

Otto barely managed to stifle his smirk as he went to the nearest bookshelf. At the flick of a hidden lever, a panel in the wall slid back, revealing a secret passage. "Walk with me," the kid said, his voice echoing as he began down the unlit path. "I think you'll find it more than a little tempting, though it won't be easy."

The thief eyed the dark passage. His hand slipped off the handle of the door. "It never is, is it?" the thief grumbled as he started after Otto. He cast a brief, mistrustful glance back at the room as he stepped through the wall. Softly, so softly it carried no echo in the narrow tunnel, the thief muttered, "I have a feeling I'm going to regret this…"

Then he turned away, and the wall panel shifted with the sound of stone grinding against stone, quietly closing behind them.

The End

Author Note: It has been a delight and a privilege to finally give you the end of The Thief Dilemma. I hope you have had as much fun reading it as I've had writing it. You all have been absolutely amazing—some of you, I know, have been following this story from its very first originating chapter back almost a decade ago, now—and your readership has been an absolute treasure to me over the years. Thank you so, so very much for your support and for sharing your enthusiasm for the Thief universe with me.

May your pockets be ever overflowing with loot, and your arrows fly true to their mark.

Stick to the shadows, my friends. Drop me a line, anytime. :)

~Locker51