Previously, on Marik Ishtar's Question Time...

Ishizu exposits on how she attempted to infiltrate Revealing Light in order to find her brother, who she believes to have been kidnapped at the time of her father's murder. Atem thinks this is all irrelevant, and that they should all be focussing on his – sorry, Mahaado's problems. Yugi, Honda and Jonouchi frolic for a bit; Jonouchi mentions his sister, who has recently married a nobleman and is on her honeymoon in France. Meanwhile, in France, the thieves are settling in and getting involved in all kinds of heated political debates – including with each other, at least indirectly. Back in London, Pegasus issues his final ultimatum: Kaiba must agree to work with him, and together they will manufacture his ship, else Pegasus will soon put KaibaCorp out of business with his superior airship designs. Kaiba refuses, goes home – and laughs.

Meanwhile, chez Pegasus...

xXx

That morning, Frederick Moloney graces the fuchsia-papered sitting room with a gleaming silver platter in hand, upon which rest a plate of butter-drenched crumpets, a crisp, newly-ironed copy of The Portent, and a fat, recently purchased volume of Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. He dips into a courteous bow upon entry, shallow enough so as not to upset the contents of the plate – and shallower still to assuage his nigh perpetually affronted pride. Perpetually affronted – in case the thought needed reiterating in his mind – by the incessant and inexplicable follies of his perennially gauche, unforgivably lax employer, who, for want of worthier causes with which to occupy himself, persists in demanding access to the most unsuitable of reading material. To say nothing of engaging in all manner of provoking displays of philosophy.

Familiarity with novels, one may forgive in a gentleman. Literary criticism – never.

In that jovial, cumbersome manner altogether typical of his parasitic class, Maximilien Pegasus peels away at pedantic little textual quibbles with a queer variety of visceral glee, in the same way a small child might pick at a brown paper parcel on the Sophian Solstice. It is unnerving to observe. Moloney wishes to high heaven he might stumble upon some more distracting vocation, to quell the incessant literary babble. If only he might turn to something less destructive; philanthropy, for instance, seems to be the current vogue, and might end up, provided the Pegasus family fortune is not entirely squandered on a dearth of soup kitchens and orphanages by the end of the fad, being ultimately less ruinous than any intellectual pretensions.

"Do make haste, Moloney; I have no desire to see you hover about the doorway like some recalcitrant shade." This cheerful rebuke is directed from the far end of the room. Without lifting his gaze from the Arabian rug stretched across the floor, Moloney places it from roughly the location of the window seat.

Stiffly, he straightens, and notes that he is correct in his conjecture: Pegasus lies sprawled, in as effortless and languid a pose as anyone ever caught him, about the rust-hued cushions below the broad, white panes. Behind the glass, nestled amidst the crisp-mown viridian of the eastern garden, sits a trickling fountain, providing a suitably picturesque backdrop in muted shades of glassy blue as counterbalance to the vivid interior. As though on cue, the faintest chirps of birdsong may be detected: a soft, murmuring undercurrent to the subsequent patter of dialogue. The surroundings seem so very animated by comparison to the inertia of their occupant that Moloney finds himself wishing rather irritably that he might stifle them. A golden sheath of sunlight falls so artfully across the entire scene that he briefly considers the idea that the weather itself is conspiring against him to produce as sickeningly fictional a view as it can muster.

The air is no longer made oppressive by heady Kemetic perfume; after a couple of weeks of dabbling in the substances, Pegasus announced that they gave him a terrible headache, and must be taken away at once – an order with which Moloney complied with rare enthusiasm. Now, at least the household may breathe unencumbered.

That said, there is the snuff with which to contend. Pegasus has taken it upon himself to collect ornamental snuff boxes, ordered from every corner of the globe – and has, quite as a secondary consequence, decided to partake in the habit himself. Moloney does not doubt that the powdery grains of his employer's newfound pet vice shall soon clog every inch of the poorly ventilated mansion, and hinder the respiration once more.

"Sir, I have brought the book you requested, along with today's paper, and breakfast."

"Marvellous!" Pegasus actually claps his hands in delight, as though the appearance of food and entertainment is tantamount to one of those frivolous operas of which he is so fond.

Lacking both the inclination and the confidence in his tenor range to regale him with an aria, Moloney settles for presenting the book with a miniature flourish.

Pegasus gives a satisfied giggle. "Wuthering Heights! Ah, I remember this book from my days in the schoolroom. It quite captivated me, when I was younger. What struck me was its beautiful symmetry – the way that intricate little novel-world rose up in turmoil for all of a few hundred pages, and then gracefully resettled, like a great bird briefly stretching its harlequin feathers, before folding them back under its breast once more." The pinnacle of this languid little diatribe is punctuated by a soft, sharp crunch as he takes a swift bite out of a crumpet, lifted soundlessly from Moloney's platter. Grinning impishly, he waits.

And waits a little while longer.

Moloney knows that he is waiting, but dash it all if that means he is obliged to respond. Let his master indulge in whichever flights of rhetorical fancy he will; his butler will not relent to any more conversational demands than are directly expressed. Implicit cues for incredulity are fair game; he will ignore them in good conscience.

Pegasus gives it a good few more seconds before conceding defeat. With an almost audible sigh, the grin is replaced by an unusual little grimace; quite unprecedented, for it is his custom to feign obliviousness to any and all passive-aggressive barbs his butler might toss his way. Moloney feels a small thrill of victory. "What I mean to say," he announces, with a rather petulant edge to his voice, "is that order in Emily Bronte's world reasserts itself with astonishing resilience. Think about it for one moment, Moloney! The savage violence of the novel's earlier passages is soothed to calm by the assumption of natural rights. The true heirs to Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights, once dispossessed, are returned to their rightful property; the usurper – vanquished. The world has an uncanny talent for setting itself to rights." Steadily, his tone deepens and darkens, until it emerges as a veritable hiss of spite. "Oh, yes. Forces far greater than the minds of men work ever so assiduously – yet patiently! So patiently – to restore what once was lost. The universe functions according to marvellous laws of continuity, would you not agree?"

Faced with a direct query, Moloney can think of no plausible excuse to refuse an answer. "I would say that science can capture all that, sir," he rejoins, tersely.

"Science?" Pegasus' face crumples into deep furrows of amusement and incredulity. "A pox on science!" The last word resounds loudly across the room, producing the faintest shadow of an echo. Moloney flinches, reflexively. Pegasus seems startled by his own vehemence, and averts his eyes. "I am talking of tradition," he finishes, almost penitently, still focussed on the floor, scanning the pattern of the rug that has garnered such excessive interest from the room's occupants this hour.

Moloney gives a delicate cough.

Pegasus' head snaps upwards at the sound, as though timed to some mechanical trigger. Fine, fraught particles of silence begin to settle about all surfaces.

Hitching his chin upwards with colossal dignity, Moloney sweeps it away. "I hear there is to be trouble on the streets tomorrow, sir," he observes, thinly.

Pegasus' eyes momentarily widen, as though his butler has committed the most vile and revolting transgression against proprietary imaginable, and all he can possibly do is look on with incomprehension. Happily, the moment passes. "Yes – some kind of airship dockers' strike," he says, fumbling with the folds of the paper. "Unofficial unions becoming uppity again; attempting to reassert a significance they never originally possessed. I daresay it shall peter out a number of hours after it begins."

"You are astute as ever, sir. Yet, when one considers the disproportionate amount of damage an aggregate of ragtag buffoons can effect, one is given cause for... concern."

Pegasus merely shrugs. With a cultivated air of nonchalance, he dips into the embroidered pocket of his dove-grey waistcoat, and produces an enamelled snuffbox, decorated prettily with a painted scene from Marlowe's Edward II. Exaggeratedly, he flips the lid open, and takes a delicate pinch of the substance, applying it to his flared nostrils with an elegant, practiced flick of the wrist.

Seconds later, he dissolves into a mass of explosive sneezes. "Bah!" In one, petulant motion, the offending receptacle is flung across the room, where it clatters dejectedly against the spindly legs of the pianoforte, spilling soft, white powder onto the edge of the carpet.

Moloney winces. "I – er – take it that this particular Swedish blend is not to your liking, sir?"

"Confound it all, Moloney, you can see perfectly well that I find it absolutely vile! Why such an aesthetically refined habit must involve the consumption of such odious stuff is beyond all comprehension." He finishes with a decided snort – disgusted, yet bizarrely dignified. "Purchase another brand. Anything but this abhorrent mixture!"

Moloney takes this demand as his cue to leave. Sweeping up the discarded snuff box, he exits with as much haste as he can courteously muster.

xXx

All things considered, Anzu is astounded with herself. The weight of betrayal need not chafe so heavily against her shoulders. Surely, she reasons, she must have been expecting such a burden. Her relationship with the King's Regent has reached a critical moment at which its basic nature must undergo a fundamental shift, else wither into nothing more than fraught familiarity. Training Anzu was never high on Mai's list of priorities, it seems. Anzu submitted to the somewhat patronising, almost offensive offer of 'improvement' with a wry edge; it seemed a game, wherein her mild offence at being objectified only served as yet another quip in an intentionally satirical setup. A mutual sport. Truly, it was an excuse. Mai has done little to alter any of Anzu's outward behaviour beyond the tired superficialities. Painted face and perfect posture – yes. Yet this seemed little more than a show - a reason to secure Anzu's company: laud the social superiority a little, but in jest, and for the most part in order to evoke a suitably combative response. Claws sheaved, there was little that was earnest about the clashes.

But Anzu has changed regardless – and not by royal decree, or indeed any intervention from Mai Kujaku save the indirect. She has gained firsthand experience of high politics and consolidated it with a sprinkling of assiduous book learning – enough to feel competent in presenting a form of challenge. For throughout their interactions, however much levity plays its role, and however great the leeway Her Majesty allows, Mai's superiority has never been open to question. That barrier has always existed between them, like a thin pane of glass preventing Anzu from venturing any further, and Mai from retracing her steps.

Well. Glass is suitably fragile.

Anzu intends to break things today – and she begins, as is always advised in such situations, neatly and unobtrusively.

It is with grim determination that she approaches her friend in the palace armouries, where he is busy conducting a procedural safety inspection on a ceremonial sabre ordered for the king. This seems to involve staring at the hilt in abstracted contemplation, and surreptitiously blunting the edges on the off-chance that it might encounter any use. At her approach, he drops his work and greets her with a friendly wave. It occurs to Anzu that, out of all the palace's inhabitants, his situation is the closest approximation of her own: he has risen high, and with dizzying pace – and somehow, in spite of it all, he has slotted into place at the shoulders of royalty with breathtaking ease. And yet, she reflects, out of the two of them, he chose perhaps the worthier patron.

"Do you remember last week, when I mentioned I wanted to purchase some clothes of my own; perhaps explore some of London's shops – that sort of thing? And you reminded me, rather quaintly, that I needed an escort?"

Honda gives a short nod in acknowledgement.

"Well – how's today? If you're not too busy?"

Honda's expression of welcome dissolves into apprehension. "Today? Miss Mazaki – Anzu – you probably haven't heard, but they expect the city to be a fairly dangerous place today. The airship dockers are on strike, and several streets are to be closed. I don't think it'll amount to much, but there could be rioting – and a clash with the Peelers, almost definitely."

Anzu's gaze hardens. "And we," she says, slowly, "will be going shopping."

A brief contest of wills ensues, in which Anzu firmly indicates with a short, irritated flicker of the eyelashes that she intends to go outside with or without the presence of a chaperone, and logic would forbid that Honda leave her to wander London's perilous streets unaccompanied. Honda's eyebrow twitches in tacit rebuttal: you wouldn't make it one step out of the gates before I informed the Regent. Anzu wrinkles her nose and gives a snappish toss of the head. She wouldn't give a d-mn about me or my whereabouts. You know she gives me free rein. Judging by the acquiescing plunge of Honda's shoulders, this wordless, calculated bluff of hers has paid off. He relents.

"Get your hat."

Anzu treats him to a broad, delighted grin. "Sophia forbid I should risk my health and welfare hatless," she remarks, and darts off to prepare before he can stop think better of his decision.

xXx

In his haste to avoid detection, Yugi all but tumbles away from the window frame, where he has been peering at the scene in the armouries since Anzu entered. He lands rather unceremoniously in the flower bed below.

Seemingly unperturbed, he brushes a little soil off the hem of his shirt. Unabashed, he looks up at his companion, squinting a little in the direct sunlight. "So... we are going to be following them, right?" he asks.

Jonouchi snorts. "Obviously."

xXx

Even having experienced Italy – even having slumped in streets not a few minutes' walk from the shimmering expanse of Alexandria's wealthier quarters – Ryou still surveys Paris with a kind of disbelieving awe. A week after his arrival, he finds that one of the great joys of the city is window shopping. He strolls down myriad crowded avenues, lingering at shop windows long enough to leave hazy rings of breath against the glass. He sees dresses with broad, rippling sleeves and fashionably tousled skirts; gowns like waterfalls of folded silk; waistcoats and cravats displayed in elegant, muted greys and browns. The food also catches his attention: glazed pastries like little china ornaments, glistening and sickly. However, Ryou passes these by quickly. After all, by now, he has been dragged to enough cafes and patisseries to last him a lifetime.

Gazing at a display of notepaper patterned in every conceivable shade of lavender and cyan, the back of Ryou's neck prickles uncomfortably, and he feels warm breath on his cheek a moment too late, as light hands land on his shoulders. He spins, poised to slam a fist into his assailant's face. Instead, he finds himself nose to nose with Marik, who catches Ryou's wrist in his signature grip: as seemingly insubstantial as butterfly wings, with a core of rough diamond.

Half drunk with exhilaration, grin splayed across his face for all to see, Marik gives his wrist an insistent tug. Ryou opens his mouth to exasperatedly tell the thief that, if his premature death of shock is the man's goal, he is making good progress. He is silenced with a finger pressed momentarily to his lips, which surprises him so much that he does not try to speak again, allowing himself to be pulled along the polished streets. He raises his free hand to his mouth, as though he might feel the imprint of the touch, and, when that fails, attempts instead to scrutinise Marik's expression. But the thief is turned resolutely away, intent on reaching some unknown destination, so Ryou follows in a heady mixture of anticipation and far less annoyance than is strictly necessary, wrist still captive.

They are south of the Seine, and Ryou has to quicken his pace to keep up with Marik's longer stride, barely registering the roads they pass as they make their way through a dizzying tangle of increasingly narrow streets. He wonders why they cannot just call a cab, and contemplates asking, but cannot bring himself to break the rules of this baffling new game long enough to speak. Finally, after at least ten minutes of fast, silent walking, Marik comes to an abrupt halt. Ryou nearly trips over the thief's feet before he is released.

They are stood before a small, quaint coffee shop, identical to the many others they have frequented over the course of their stay in Paris. A sign over the window informs Ryou in deep blue lettering that its name is Café de Minuit.

"Really?" he finds himself saying, and is mildly sorry to break the carefully crafted silence. He cannot shake a strange, pervasive sense of anticlimax.

Marik shakes his head, still mute, and then, seeing Ryou's expression, lets out a heavy, disappointed sigh. "You just had to ruin the mystery with your misplaced cynicism," he says, voice reproachful and more than little petulant.

"Misplaced?" inquires Ryou somewhat hopefully, and receives an entirely unimpressed look. Before he can make further comment, Marik disappears into the building, evidently meaning to recapture at least a hint of the mystique of their journey.

Inside, the café is poorly lit, its windows coated in a patina of aging dust, and Ryou looks up to see plaster flaking from the ceiling. The place is nondescript to the point that it seems a purposefully cultivated image; it replicates exactly the features that Ryou has seen in every coffee shop in Paris. Patrons are sprawled elegantly around a multitude of spindly wooden tables, and a menu is scrawled in chalk on the back wall, either through an unfortunate desire to make the place appear somewhat eccentric, or for the more practical purpose of hiding the crumbling brickwork.

Marik bounds past all of this without sparing it a second glance, leading Ryou up a stairwell nestled discretely in the far corner. They ascend to a similarly furnished room – a far quieter affair than the ground floor. Whilst seemingly open to customers, it is completely empty, save one man slumped in an overstuffed armchair.

Bakura glances up from the espresso he is nursing, and narrows his eyes. "You're late," he admonishes.

Taking a seat nearest the window – one side of a frayed beige sofa – Ryou finds himself beginning to strongly desire coffee of his own. "Why did you drag me here?"

With great dignity, Marik settles next to him. "The demon doubts my judgement," he laments, to the world at large. Bakura ignores him in favour of sipping his drink. "Besides," Marik adds, rather more sharply, "it's precisely ten o'clock."

Bakura peers over the rim of his cup. Swallowing, he makes a great show of rifling through his coat to find a watch.

"Having troubles?" enquires Marik, innocently.

"I find myself keeping my pocket watch in increasingly improbable places," says Bakura, retrieving the object from what appears to be a compartment concealed in his sleeve. "It's the paranoia. Trauma-induced, I'm sure."

Ryou chokes and sputters something incoherent. Marik cheerfully slaps him on the back. "Well?"

Bakura closes the watch with a snap, idly twisting the chain between his fingers. It gleams, mesmerising as ever. "Thirty-two minutes past."

Slinging one arm around Ryou's unsuspecting shoulders, Marik fixes his partner with a charming smile. "What's thirty-two minutes between friends?" he asks, grin widening into a smirk as Bakura snorts, unamused.

Having witnessed theses antics for long enough to know exactly the point at which it becomes necessary to put an end to them (preferably a few seconds before one thief tackles the other, but generally only after they have had the chance to deliver several witty retorts each, or else they will sulk), Ryou interrupts. "I don't see the seeds of revolution, ready to be sown in the fertile soil of dissent," he remarks, and feels a rush of satisfaction as Bakura sniggers.

Before he replies, Marik pauses to delicately remove his arm from Ryou's shoulders, presumably taking offense at his betrayal. "That, demon," he says lightly, "was a most unsavoury metaphor. You ought to be ashamed." Turning to Bakura, his expression becomes uncharacteristically serious. "Well?"

"I have assessed the situation," says Bakura smoothly. He cups his chin in one hand, considering the wallpaper (an incredibly unattractive magnolia). Then, he seems to realise how cryptic the statement sounded, and shoots Ryou a smirk through splayed fingers. "It seems circumstances have changed in the eight months since our last visit."

"What-" Ryou begins, exasperatedly, and Marik speaks over him. "How so?"

Gesturing vaguely with his coffee cup, Bakura shrugs. "The Star has not seen the light of day in a very long time. Some say months, others years. I'm disinclined to believe the latter."

"And the former?" inquires Marik. By now, Ryou is entirely sure that they are doing this on purpose. They plotted this aboard the Diabound, no doubt, stealing amused glances at each other over his head at the breakfast table, stifling their laughter at their own audacity.

"We had best resign ourselves," says Bakura. Ryou considers leaving. He can only imagine the expressions this would produce.

"You know," he says, in one final attempt to glean some form of acknowledgement, "I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about."

Marik rarely does anything as so undignified as to snigger. Fortunately, Bakura has no such qualms. In fact, both thieves seem to be finding it remarkably difficult to keep straight faces.

"I suppose," says Marik, making a heroic attempt not to laugh, "we forgot to tell you."

"He forgot to tell you," Bakura interjects. "I never made any promises."

"We meet today in order to plan your first heist!" declares Marik, with a grandiose gesture that misses Ryou's nose by less than an inch.

"Oh," says Ryou. And then: "that's nice." He receives two identical disparaging looks, both of which manage to convey in no uncertain terms that he is thoroughly dull, disappointingly predictable and, furthermore, chronically incapable of tying his cravat. Tugging self-consciously at his neck wear, Ryou attempts to rephrase his response. "I mean, I can't really think of much else to say, under the circumstances. It's all a little sudden, and I'm not as prone to spontaneous fits of verbosity as you are-"

The arm around his shoulders is replaced, this time in sympathy.

"Wretch," says Bakura, almost gently, "just ask what we plan to steal, and stop talking."

Ryou quickly comes to the conclusion that it will be better for everyone – and, more importantly, his own sanity – if he complies. "What do you plan to steal?" he asks, resigned.

"What do we plan to steal," Marik corrects him. "After all, you'll be involved. And, in answer to your question: the Star of Eternity."

Finishing his coffee, Bakura elaborates. "Twenty carats of internally flawless blue diamond, cut by one of Paris' leading jewellers and lodged in a silver pendant."

"How much is it worth?" breathes Ryou.

Immediately, he is treated to the most scalding of glares. "We're not selling it," Marik says fervently, as though Ryou had inquired as to the value of his firstborn child, or the Diabound. "We're keeping it as a token. It's the third most sought after jewel in France and anyone who could successfully steal it would be lauded as one of the greatest thieves in Western Europe."

"Which is, as you know, one of our many goals," says Bakura, raising his empty cup in a mock toast.

Ryou leans back in his seat to consider this. Marik automatically rearranges himself into a more comfortable position, sprawling horizontally across the sofa and resting his head on Ryou's shoulder. "The last we heard," he says, inspecting his fingernails, "was that the Star belonged to the Marquis d'Heilly. It has been in his family for several generations: his great grandfather, penniless, acquired it on an expedition to Africa. The man intended to seek gold, and found it, but also came across the diamond." Here, Marik pauses, frowning. On closer inspection, Ryou sees that he has chipped the nail of his index finger. "The current Marquis gave the Star to his wife as a present on their fifth anniversary, as a symbol of both his devotion, and the family's prosperity."

Here, Bakura cuts in. "Therein lies the problem."

"Their prosperity?" enquires Ryou.

"No, the Marquis' devotion. Or rather, his lack thereof." Bakura heaves a world weary sigh, as though he can barely stand to contemplate the cardinal sin of infidelity. "When his marriage was flourishing, he and his wife threw spectacular parties, and often exhibited the Star. Word on the street is that d'Heilly has been unfaithful to his wife, and thus their relationship is – put delicately – in a remarkably similar state to the wretch, prior to his miraculous salvation."

Ryou makes an irritated noise, and is spared a condescending grin by one thief, and a ripple of appreciative laughter from the other.

"Our plan was to enter the d'Heilly household as guests," Bakura continues, "but that seems impossible."

Now, Marik sits up, mirth and the state of his manicure forgotten entirely. His expression is one of intense concentration, mingled with an odd sort of delight at the useless tangle that their plans have become. "There must be another way," he murmurs, idly tracing a figure of eight on the chequered tablecloth. "Where is the Star kept when it is not on display?"

Bakura slams one palm on the table, arresting all movement. Ryou refrains from making a comment on the melodrama this entails. "This is the part where it gets interesting."

"Because, prior to learning that all your plans had been thwarted, it was incredibly dull," Ryou says dryly, unable to contain himself.

"We shouldn't have taught him sarcasm," Bakura growls – though not a moment later, his grin returns. "Interruptions aside, numerous thieves have attempted to steal the Star of Eternity, and by their accounts, it is locked in a vault, the key to which is entrusted to the Marquise. I could not obtain the vault's location, but I do know the layout of the house."

"Eight months ago," Marik explains, "we paid a social visit to the d'Heilly household. The caviar was a triumph."

"The champagne equally delightful," Bakura adds.

"Yet your attention was far more focussed on the Duc de Thouars."

Bakura gives his partner a long, flat look. "And yours on Belleford. Hypocrisy is the greatest character flaw, brat, rivalled only by sanctimony. You appear to possess both in equal measure."

Fast realising that the thieves are derailing the conversation again, and deeply uncertain as to whether he dares learn more about their previous visit to the d'Heilly's, Ryou interrupts. "Can't we find someone who knows the location of the Star? Someone who visited their house with you."

Marik falls back in defeat. The sofa gives a wheeze of protest. "The guests never see where it is kept – the Marquise wears it from the moment it leaves the vault."

"The staff must know," Bakura points out, gesturing with his empty cup. "What kind of nobleman polishes their own silver?"

"So, you accost their butler to find out, fine." Grabbing the cup out of Bakura's hands (ignoring his bemused expression), Marik dips his finger in the dregs of coffee, drawing a rough square on the table cloth. "If we can jimmy a window open, I can get us to any floor on the house." Triumphantly, he places the cup on the top left corner of the square. "They have a dumbwaiter."

"It connects to every floor?" Bakura asks, looking sceptical.

Carefully, Marik scoops three lumps from their table's sugar bowl into the cup. "Absolutely." He walks the spoon across the table. "I'll deal with the Marquise."

"How?"

The thieves look up, as though woken from a reverie. Ryou can only assume they had forgotten that he existed. "How?" he repeats.

A lump of sugar is flicked towards the spoon. "I'll deal," Marik replies cryptically. "Just wait ten minutes after I go in, then follow. Open the back door from the inside. From there, I'll meet you in the dumbwaiter on the ground floor. We'll work out the rest once we know where the Star is kept."

Bakura delicately picks up the sugar lump, and pops it in his mouth.

"Can a dumbwaiter really fit all three of us?" Ryou asks, and watches the thieves consider.

"Potentially," says Marik, after much deliberation.

"Then maybe," Ryou continues, hoping to at least add something to the plan, "we can leave one person on the ground floor. Why would the vault be on the ground floor? One person can stay there and tug on the rope of the dumbwaiter if they need to alert the other two." Hopefully, he takes a fourth sugar lump, and dumps it next to the cup to replace the one Bakura ate.

Tiring of his own antics, Marik tips the lumps into a pile, neatens its edges with the spoon, turns the cup upside down and uses it to cover the entire mess. Ryou spares a thought for the person who will invariably have to clean up after they are gone, only to watch Marik lift the cup to reveal – nothing. He sticks his tongue out, and Ryou catches a glimpse of all three lumps before the thief swallows. "Magic," Marik says simply.

"Fine," snarls Bakura, evidently annoyed at any diversions from the plan, "we'll leave you on the ground floor, Marik. Wretch, you'll come with me to retrieve the Star. Should make the entire thing tens times less insufferable."

"But I've never-"

Bakura stands with a swish of his coat, silencing all protests. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a butler to inebriate."

xXx

Extra Notes:

- Edward II is, in fact, and extremely violent play, with a particularly gruesome denouement. There is no way that anyone other than Pegasus would choose to engrave a scene from that play onto a snuff box. Call it a literary in joke.

- Oh, and Pegasus' reactionary views on Wuthering Heights are deliriously short sighted. Just saying.