A Thief but No Murderer- Chapter 1

The coolness of the night wicks away the hot shame on my face. I let a little puff of air escape from my mouth in a sigh, resigning myself to the fact that if I didn’t do what I needed to we’d die.

Ali gives me a half-smile, the guilt evident on his own face. “We have to, September,” He whispers.

“I know.”

He scans my face in the twilight. The moon is bright, making his face glow. My gut roils with nervousness. I can see too well out here, we’re sure to be caught. I take a deep breath, hoping to calm my pounding heart.

Ali knits his fingers together and spreads his feet wide apart, creating a pocket for me to slip my foot into so he can boost me up. “Ready?” He whispers.

In response I put my hands on his shoulders and my foot in his hands. He lifts up, arms shaking even under my meager weight. I reach up and grab the lip of the wall looming in front of us and pull up. I slip a knee onto the ledge and straddle the wall, sitting as if on a horse. My knees grip the wall for balance as I help Ali up. He does most of it himself; I’m way too small to help much. Once we’re both astride the wall I slip quietly to the other side, rolling on the balls of my feet to avoid making noise. Ali lands silently beside me. We creep towards the estate, careful to keep hidden in the foliage. We reach a floor level window and Ali gently eases the shutters off. Careful not to shatter the glass I work the window out of its socket. Once it’s free I lay it down softly in the grass. I slip into the hollow and emerge inside the manor. Ali squirms through after me, struggling far more than me to fit. Once he’s safely on the floor beside me we make our way through the dark house. A baron lives here, and it’s obvious with every decoration we pass.

Beside me I see Ali slip a small trinket into a sack. I feel a pang of guilt in my heart. We’re very careful with who we steal from and what we steal. We only steal from those who won’t miss it, the well-endowed. The man who owns this place probably won’t even notice anything gone, but I still almost drown in guilt with every penny we steal. We search each hallway for sellable trinkets, careful to avoid bedrooms. We do this for a few reasons. Although the more valuable items will most likely be in the bedrooms, jewelry, gold, money, and whatnot, the things in there are also more likely to be sentimental. We try to avoid hurting people as much as possible and stealing something that means something to the owner goes too far for me. Soon we’re satisfied with our load and make our way back to the window.

“Shh.” Ali whispers, his eyes widening. I listen and hear what he must be so frightened by: footsteps. I freeze. We continue to the window as quietly as we can but a few feet away from the window a woman turns the corner. Her hand flies up to her mouth and she screeches.

“Burglars!!!” She screams. Ali and I take off, flying for the window. She doesn’t come after us but continues her symphony of screeching. I dive through the window and Ali is close behind me. More shouting joins the woman’s, but this time it is the low timber of men. Ali and I take off sprinting. We make it to the wall just as a poorly aimed arrow whizzes past us. Shouts of “Get them” and “shoot again” echo across the grounds. Ali quickly boosts me up. My arm erupts in pain as an arrow punches into my arm. I bite hard on my cheek to keep myself from crying out. I slip over to the other side of the wall and Ali comes down after me. We keep running until the cries start to die out and then I collapse against a wall gasping. I can feel warm blood trickling down my arm and give a muffled moan of pain.

Ali turns to me and catches sight of the arrow buried in my bicep. “September! You’re shot!”

“I’m alright,” I say breathlessly. “I’m-“ I gasp in pain as my arm ends up in Ali’s hands, being inspected less than gently.

“Sorry.” He murmurs. “We have to get this arrow out.”

“Not yet,” I manage to get out through the pain.

“Denver can do it when we get back.” Ali says. “Are you going to be able to make it?” He says, concern lacing his words.

“Of course,” I say, but my arm burns in protest. “It’s fine Ali, really.”

He shakes his head, not quite believing me. We start walking back nevertheless, me clutching my wounded arm and him sending me worried looks. He takes the sack of filched goods off my back and adds it to his own. I don’t have the will to protest, I’m too busy hoping I can make it back to the barn that is our safe place without Ali having to carry me.