Shadow of the Templar: Cuckoo's Egg, Extended Edition: Chapter Eight

On timeline: early to mid-1990s, ten to fifteen years before the events of the books
Spoilers for: the usual
Warnings: same as ever

8.

      Saturday dawned cold, wet, and blustery, and it was with some relief that Bran shrugged into his parka. With the hood up and laced tight barely any of his face would show, and he'd just be another shape in the rain—mad to be out and about, perhaps, but he'd even thought up an excuse for that. Project for school, he'd mumble, and if pressed he could show his 'Paul Greaves' school ID. Brilliant.

      Ethan drove him to the station, frowning out the windscreen at the rain. "Try to stay warm," he said.

      "Aye." Bran's mind was far away. The wind rose and howled about the car and he only settled further down in his seat.

      "Do you think you'll be staying in town overnight?"

      Bran thought about it. "Nah," he finally said. "One thing to go, innit, but another to stay. I'll come back tonight and go again tomorrow." If I have to, he thought. "Next weekend, maybe."

      "That's fair." Ethan slowed slightly. "It's cheaper to do so and it looks less suspicious all round. Well thought."

      Bran shrugged, a glow of pride in his gut that he tried not to show. "Aye, well," he said, and dropped the subject.

      Ethan pulled up in front of the station in between gusts. Bran mumbled a quick goodbye and threw himself out of the car before Ethan could offer to come in with him (or not offer, which might have been better or might have been worse, Bran wasn't certain). The car hesitated until Bran got under cover, then Ethan put it into gear and pulled sedately away.

      There weren't too many people about, as it was still early-ish on Saturday morning and a bit nasty to boot. Bran found a bench that wasn't too wet and huddled on it until the train arrived, then found himself a seat and curled up there, bracing his wet trainers against the back of the seat in front of him until other people started to file in. The train was warmer (well, warmer) and dry (dry-ish) and despite his slight nerves Bran dozed off a few minutes later.

      If anything the rain was heavier by the time he got off at Marylebone. Bran hunched his shoulders and stared down at his feet and trudged off, past a thousand little shops he wasn't at all interested in. He'd done his best to memorise the possible shops—wouldn't do to get caught with a list of jewellers on his person—but they all seemed a thousand miles away from here and from each other. At least he could treat himself to a proper terrible meal before he went home. He'd do that just as soon as it was too cold to bear for another second, he decided.

      Bran walked about for hours. It all became a blur almost straight away. The difficulty was that he wasn't sure what to look for—all right, he could dismiss that one shop because it was a block from a police station, and that one was bloody enormous, and that one had the sign for a nasty security firm in its window, but most of the others had nothing to recommend them nor rule them out. Still, Bran looked. He hadn't anything else to do.

      It wasn't until close on to two o'clock, with his lunch just a greasy memory in his belly, that Bran rounded a corner and found precisely what he was looking for. It was so bleeding obvious that he couldn't breathe for a tick. Bran hitched in a breath and found his way under a grocery awning, fumbling about in his pockets so as to have something to do while he studied the place—then he packed up and moved off, walking all the blocks around, looking for something, anything, that might disqualify his choice. If there was anything, he didn't spot it.

      He was back on the train by three, his mind afire with possibilities.

      "It's not much of a shop," he told Ethan later that night. "Mostly trinkets and cheap tat, like. But there's a sign in the window, 'we buy gold', and if they buy it, they sell it."

      "I'm not sure there'll be much of a take, either," said Ethan, with a faint frown. "You'll most likely have to drill the box."

      "But! But." Energised, Bran tapped the table in front of Ethan. "Bet you it's not much of a box, not in a run-down shop like that. And there's flats overhead, like, so any noise that I make, they'll all think it's a neighbour."

      Ethan considered the shop listing, then sighed. "You aren't wrong, no. I suspect it will be an easy target and the take will be... commensurate?"

      "Well... aye," said Bran, "but it's my first job, like, and I don't want to get in over my head."

      "And that is fair." Ethan folded away the yellow pages and gave Bran a thorough looking at. "I do think you're capable of more, Bran, but I can't fault you for wanting an easy target your first time out."

      Bran scowled down at his hands, lacing his fingers together. "If it won't do, just say so!"

      "In the end, it must be your call," said Ethan. "I only want you to take what you've learned and apply it. If you feel that this is a worthwhile job, then do it."

      "See, you say that, like, but it's not what you're thinking—"

      "What I'm thinking doesn't matter," Ethan said, raising his voice just enough to make Bran hush. "You're old enough to make your own decisions."

      "Then... then stop sighing and telling me I'm capable of more and all that shite!" Bran cried, squawking a bit in the middle. "If you support me so, then support me proper!"

      Silence. Ethan took off his little glasses and rubbed his temples. "You're right, Bran," he said, his voice tired. "I apologise."

      Bran looked away. "Well," he grumbled, and then couldn't think of anything else to say, so he said "Well" again.

      "Go on upstairs and get some sleep," Ethan said. "Tomorrow you'll need to start thinking about how you'll do the job."

      "Already started," said Bran, but he pushed back his chair and went anyway.

      He was dragging arse down the hallway, looking forward to nothing more than a quick shower and a long sleep, when Jeremiah burst out of his own room like a spring-loaded snake. "Well?" Jeremiah demanded, his eyes wide. "Did he say it was all right?"

      "It isn't his decision, is it?" Bran said, pushing past Jeremiah. "He'll abide by whatever I decide. He said."

      "Bet it'll be brilliant," said Jeremiah, tagging along. "Just because it's not posh doesn't mean it hasn't got a lot of money. Bet it has more, even, because they don't spend money trying to be posh."

      Bran banged on into his room, for the moment too focussed on his shower to even shove Jeremiah back out. "He'll see," Bran predicted. "I'll do it up right, do all the things that Ethan's taught us, and I'll come out ahead."

      "Course," Jeremiah said loyally. "You'll get the plans and such soon? Can I see?"

      "Maybe," Bran said, stripping out of his shirt. It had been damp but was now mostly dry; his skin was still all clammy. Bran made a face. "Go on, get out, I'm for the shower."

      "Bet it has loads," Jeremiah said, staring raptly off over Bran's shoulder at the wall, probably envisioning all the wrong bits (and not making a move to get out, not at all). "People get into binds all the time. You ought to go in right at the end of the month, when the rent's due on all the flats, bet everyone's caught short then!"

      Bran rolled his eyes. "Aye," he said impatiently. "Now will you get?"

      "All right, all right," Jeremiah said. His eyes snapped back into focus and he grinned at Bran before darting back out.

      Bran worked up a good head of steam overnight and went down to breakfast the next morning with his hands in fists so tight that his short nails dented the flesh of his palms. He'd barely put anything in his mouth before he pinned Ethan with as adult a glare as he could manage and a brusque "So what I want to know is, how much am I allowed to spend on research, like?"

      "That all depends," Ethan said. "What did you intend to buy?"

      Bran swallowed a bite of egg. "I want the plans to the place, right. And pictures of the inside of the shop, that would be brilliant. And I need to know what sort of alarms they've got and how often the police drive by and if there are shutters—"

      Ethan was nodding along to Bran's plans long before he finished. "All of that can certainly be arranged," he said. Come up to my room after lunch and I'll put you in touch with a few useful fellows."

      "After lunch, then," Bran said, relaxing back into his chair with a touch of relief. He'd got away with it, so far.

      "Have to work with Jeremy after breakfast, but once lunch is done he'll be off with Claude," said Ethan. "So we'll do it then."

      After lunch Bran dumped his dishes into the sink and ran upstairs to Ethan's room. Ethan was already there, sitting at his little roll-top desk and writing something on a notepad. "Bran," he said absently. "Please, sit down."

      Bran dropped into the chair by the side of the desk with a thump. "So—"

      "Mm?" Ethan looked up. There was not the slightest trace of guile in his vague and blue-eyed gaze.

      "Well," said Bran, trying not to fidget, "first off I'll want blueprints and the like."

      Ethan nodded. "Unfortunately you're a bit young to be requesting building plans in person—they'd certainly wonder why you wanted them—but there are a number of people who can help you acquire whatever you're looking for, for a fee." He wrote two numbers on the pad and noted 'PLANS' by each in his small, square hand. "Either of these ladies can help you. I've let them know that you might come asking."

      "Er, so, I'd wanted to know about their alarm systems," Bran said, a little unsettled at how simple this was.

      "The building plans will tell you a bit about that." Ethan wrote 'ALARMS' and added 'CHECK WINDOW'. "Best choice is to see if they've got a little placard in the window that says what company does their alarms—once you know that I'll know who you ought to call."

      Bran ran his thumb over the knots of his knuckles. "So... I'd wanted to see the inside, like."

      "Mm."

      Bran, who'd been expecting some sort of answer, fumbled for a moment. "And... and I shouldn't ought to go in myself, should I, don't want them to remember my face..."

      "Well." Ethan's pen made a lazy figure-eight about his fingers. "I'd recommend going in once, and as soon as possible so that they've got plenty of time to forget you again."

      "Aye, but..." Bran swallowed. "I'm only seventeen, like, they'll watch me like hawks to see if I lift anything."

      "So don't lift anything," Ethan said. "I've several kinds of hidden camera you can use, and you can take your own reference photos while you're there."

      Bran's thumb ticked off his knuckles again. "S'pose that would be easiest, wouldn't it?"

      "Most likely."

      The next Saturday found Bran on the train again, bound for Marylebone under a grey and lowering sky. He had a tiny camera shutter hidden in his parka and his heart in his throat, which made him feel a fool whenever he caught himself at it—was he scared of going into a shop, then? Brilliant. Next he'd be cringing at his own shadow, and then he'd probably be too scared of germs and floaty bits to breathe any longer. And yet, he still squirmed about in his seat, ignoring the ever-more-strident huffs of breath from the lady sitting next to him while outside the rain blatted against the windows, then stopped, then picked up again.

      The heavy spectacles he wore had thick black rims and looked cheap. Even though the lenses were plain glass they still distorted the world a bit just by existing, and Bran kept blinking like an owl at every little thing—his hair was currently an unremarkable middling brown, parted at the side and brushed down smooth, the whole of it making him look an awful swot. At least he'd been spared the school blazers and all, since it was Saturday. His rucksack sat on the floor at his feet, slumping half-empty—it wasn't like he had much to carry about, even after he'd put in King Lear mostly for appearance's sake. Bran picked at the cuff of his jumper.

      He got off the train at Marylebone and trudged head-down through the crowds and the misting rain to get on the proper bus. Sitting on the bus was like sitting in soup, the air filling with dank perspiration-flavoured steam as people's own body heat struggled to dry out their damp togs. The floor was a mass of footstep-shaped puddles. Bran's glasses fogged over on the instant.

      No one paid him a bit of mind. Bran stared down at his knob-knuckled hands, laced together in his lap. The bus lurched ahead, travelled, turned, and lurched to a stop to admit a pair of girls just a bit younger than Bran, still giggling over something or other. Neither of them paid him any mind but the sound of their laughter seemed to pierce right through him, making Bran hunch over as if he could curl up about his belly. They flopped into the pair of seats behind him. "Can't believe she'd let him put his hand down her knickers already," one of them said, low and confidential.

      "Why not?" said the other. "I have." They dissolved into half-horrified giggles again. Bran stared down at his hands and tried not to listen, his mind a titillating hell of girls' knickers and laughter.

      By the time Bran jumped off the bus again he was almost glad to be back out in the wet. The shop looked just as it had the last time he'd seen it. Still, now that he was actually here, his nerve was threatening to fail him all over again. Bran retreated to the McDonalds across the street and bought himself a fizzy drink to buy himself time, holing up in a booth with his cup and his well-thumbed copy of King Lear.

      He could barely read the text through his owlish glasses, but it turned out not to matter. Glancing over the top of the book he could see the store across the street, smeary through the rain-streaked glass but clear enough for all that. Bran poked the straw into his mouth. It was a trashy place, no doubt about that. The building was nice enough, and the actual shop space was a bit of all right, but the space had been colonised by a parasite that put up trashy plastic WE BUY GOLD and PAYDAY LOANS signs in the shop windows and didn't give two wet farts about the state of their window displays. Behind the signs the shop was dim.

      Bran squinted and nursed his drink and tried desperately to stop thinking about the giggling girls on the bus and remember all the things that he'd wanted to have a look at. There was a placard in the window by the door, small and dulled, maybe for the alarm system, so he'd have to look at it on the way in. The people who came and went all looked young and a bit furtive and never left carrying anything more than they'd come in with, so either they hadn't bought anything large or they'd brought some small tat to sell. Maybe it was a fence—but no, that was a laugh, if it had been crooked Ethan would have said. Most importantly, to Bran's way of thinking, he sat in the booth for near on half an hour and never once saw a police car go by.

      He stuffed his book back into his rucksack and left the McDonalds before any of the employees could grumble at him (or worse, mark him and remember him later). The rain had dwindled down to almost nothing, at least, but Bran was still splashing through puddles as he made his way down the street, putting ten blocks between himself and the store before he crossed the street and started making his way back.

      Bran went past antique dealers, corner shops, precious gift shops selling all manner of precious kitsch, and any number of boutiques selling ladies' clothing. Most of it was dull as dirt but still he forced himself to dawdle, looking in windows and lingering in front of displays. He was Paul Greaves, he told himself, a boy off from school for the week-end, looking for a birthday present for his father (but nothing too dear, as he didn't have much). 'Paul' was so deep in contemplating what he might buy for Ethan (as if Ethan would treat anything from any of these shops with anything more than cool and hesitant courtesy) that he was startled to come upon the enormous WE BUY GOLD sign, like a punch in the face.

      The window display was jumbled together without much care, but at least it was clean. Bran paused to consider a collection of men's watches, most of them fairly ordinary. As 'Paul', he hesitated, then touched the window, then headed for the door with his hands in his pockets; he paused in front of the door, looked down at the placard, and triggered the camera shutter. The glasses did nothing that he could tell, made no noise. He'd just have to trust that they were working properly. Bran pushed on into the shop and triggered the camera again.

      A bell rang over the door. The shop smelt odd, like old books and dust, and Bran stood 'indecisively' in the doorway and swung his head from side to side, snapping pictures as fast as he could. Two indistinct shapes in the back resolved into people behind the counter, both watching him carefully. The skin on the back of Bran's neck prickled so hard as to hurt a little; trying to ignore it he stumped on in, moving past displays with his hands still firmly in his pockets.

      He was half-lost in a display of wooden trinket boxes when someone spoke up at his elbow. "Help you, dear?"

      Bran jumped, nearly fumbling the camera in his pocket. "Oh, I..." He swallowed. Every last bit of his cover story fell out of his head, except for the beginning: "I was looking for a gift..." He groped after the rest of the sentence. He knew he had it somewhere. His cheeks started to heat as he pushed out the first words that came to mind: "... for a girl."

      He stopped, aghast and going pinker, but through some miracle he'd said the right thing: the saleslady's alert expression softened into something that was almost soppy. "I'm certain we can help you find something," she said, touching Bran's elbow. "What sorts of things does she like?"

      Floundering, Bran improvised. "She's... she's not very girly, like. Like one of my mates, really. She doesn't like girly things so much."

      The saleslady pursed her lips. "So not jewellery, then."

      "Well..."

      "Not girly jewellery, I see," said the saleslady, with a little laugh. "Did you have any idea how much you were looking to spend?"

      "I've got ten quid," Bran said, the words spilling out all in a tumble. "And a bit."

      The soppy look didn't fade too much, but all the same she didn't look quite as interested as she had a moment ago. "Well, take a look around," she said, touching his elbow again. "Maybe you'll see something that she'd like."

      "Cheers," Bran said faintly, watching the saleslady go. As a terrified afterthought he took a picture of the back of the store. His heart was going mad in his chest, but all the same, he'd pulled it off so far—Bran stared at a rack of scarves until he calmed a bit.

      His choice of targets was looking more inspired by the moment, he told himself. One wall was lined with locked display cases full of watches and fancier-looking jewellery, all laid out in felt-lined cases, the sort that they'd take out of the case and put into the safe at night. That ought to make the take worthwhile—ought to make Ethan stop sneering, it ought. Bran looked the display cases up and down while the saleslady kept an eye on his progress. Forcing himself to frown, Bran moved on.

      Two customers came and went while Bran browsed the aisles. One looked over the selection and left without buying anything; the other dropped a handful of gold chains on the counter and demanded money for them. The ensuing fuss with weights and measuring took most everyone's attention off Bran, so he glanced towards the back of the store and took a few shots of the counter area. That was it, he thought. He ought to go before he started to look any more suspicious. Bran turned and paused, his eye caught by a tangle of colourful leather in a cardboard box. '£3' was written on the little placard, and after some thought, Bran fumbled out a bit of dark red and carried it back to the saleslady. "I'll have this, please," he said, putting the braided leather bracelet on the counter and digging out his wallet.

      "Smart choice," said the saleslady, picking it up. "Not too girly but still jewellery. I hope she likes it."

      "Aye," said Bran. He glanced past her shoulder at the dim back of the shop and triggered the camera, once, twice, and again. "So do I."

      Two minutes later Bran pushed on out of the shop, glad to be going, stuffing his receipt and the bracelet into his pocket. Suddenly he could breathe properly again. He went back the way he'd come, going over the last fifteen minutes in his head, looking for any mistakes he might have made—he couldn't think of any. The last knot of tension fell out of his spine.

      Bran zigged and zagged at random and wound up a good ten blocks from the store, in a part of the neighbourhood he hadn't ever seen before. Once he felt safe and anonymous again, he found a pay phone and dug a slip of paper out of his wallet.

      It was almost seven that evening by the time that Bran got home again, a damp shape sprawled out in the passenger seat of Ethan's car without a care for the leather. He was tired, but still dimly excited—he'd pulled it off today and it gave him a touch more confidence about the weeks to come. Ethan parked the car in the garage and shut it off. "We'll develop your film after lunch tomorrow," he said, slipping the key from the ignition.

      "Sounds grand," Bran said, fighting to open his eyes. Ethan's door opened and chunked shut again; after a moment Bran heaved in a breath and followed suit. "God's name, but I'm wiped. I'll crash after dinner, most like."

      "I'd say you've earned the rest," said Ethan, letting them both into the kitchen.

      Claude was a tubby whirlwind in front of the stove, a wooden spoon in one hand, the handle of a deep pan in the other. "Evening!" he called over his shoulder. "Dinner shall be in ten minutes or so, so wash up, wash up!"

      "Brilliant," Bran said, trudging towards the door. He had just enough energy to make it upstairs and into dry things, he thought, and then dinner should wake him up a bit. He pushed on out into the hallway and headed for the back stairs almost entirely by instinct.

      Jeremiah was lurking at the top of the stairs, his eyes wide and anxious. "How was it, then? Did you get the pictures?"

      "We'll know tomorrow, won't we?" Bran said, pushing past. "Leave off, I'm too tired to deal with your nonsense right this moment."

      "I just want to know," Jeremiah said from behind him, sounding so woebegone that it made Bran want to be sick all over him. "No one ever tells me anything, like, and I know I can't help or anything, but I want to at least know what's happening..."

      Bran rolled his eyes. "Good luck with that," he said. "See Ethan telling you anything he doesn't need to, that'll be the day." Nudged by a stray twitch of memory he put his hand in his pocket. "Here," he said, tossing the bracelet at Jeremiah, who snapped it out of the air. "Don't say I never gave you nothing. Told the shop lady I was buying a present for a girl, but you'll do in a pinch, I expect."

      "Aaw, brilliant," said Jeremiah, forgetting his complaints. "This from the shop, then?"

      "'Tis, aye."

      Jeremiah wrapped the bracelet around his skinny wrist and fumbled with the snap. "You nick it?"

      "Not likely! Think I want that sort of attention from the same shopkeep I'm going to rob blind? Paid for it all fair and square!"

      That won him a little crooked twitch of smile. "Would have been better if you'd nicked it," Jeremiah said, "but I'll keep it all the same." He shook his hand, getting the bracelet settled.

      "Oh, aye, well, you're welcome, then."

      The crooked smile grew. "Ooh, right, where are my manners, then? Ta for the gift, Bran. I'll keep it always."

      "Right you will," Bran said, with a snort. "It's only a bit of tat, like. You'll lose it in a week and no one will give a toss, least of all me."

      Fiddling with the bracelet, Jeremiah favoured Bran with an odd smiling look. "We'll see, I suppose."

      "Aye," said Bran, unsettled. "We'll see at that."

      "Some of these have turned out quite well," Ethan said, squinting at the dripping photograph that he was holding up with a pair of tongs.

      Bran nodded, one hand on his gut to calm the nervous squirming. "Aye, I'm chuffed."

      They were huddled together in one red-lit corner of Ethan's vast, cluttered workspace, developing the film that Bran had brought back tucked away in the bow of his borrowed spectacles. The reek of chemicals clawed at Bran's eyes and throat. He stayed well back and tried to breathe through his mouth. Out of thirty-six exposures perhaps ten were usable, but those ten were clean, clear, and informative; two copies of each hung to dry on the washing line overhead. Bran reached up and tapped one, making it shiver. "See, here, these locked cases, they've got—" he counted under his breath "—thirty of those little felt trays in 'em. Nothing too dear, not for a hock shop, but most of the bits in the case are hundred-pound items, more or less."

      "I admit, that's promising." Ethan hung up the last picture. "Of course, actually fencing a tremendous load of small-ticket items like these will be somewhat time-consuming, but at least we've some resources in that area."

      Magnanimous in victory, Bran said, "Aye, well, maybe the job wouldn't be worth your time, like, but for my first time out I think it'll do."

      "Do you know, I believe you're right." Ethan's smile was small, but it was there.

      "I gave that lady a ring, too," said Bran. A stray tendril of stink rasped against the back of his throat and he coughed. "While I was there. Found a pay phone ten blocks or so away and asked about the floor plans and all, and she said she'd send 'em to you at the usual place, wherever that is."

      Ethan frowned at the garland of images. "Excellent," he said. "I expect you'll have them within the week and then we can compare them to your photographs."

      "Right." Bran looked away. "Right."

      "Well! Nothing for it but to leave these to dry," Ethan said. Never content to leave well enough alone, he started shuffling photographs back and forth, adjusting their spacing by minuscule amounts. "I'll finish cleaning up in here if you've somewhere else to be."

      Bran took a step back. "Aye," he said. "See you at dinner, then?"

      "At dinner," Ethan confirmed, and Bran spun and left the darkroom and its overwhelming pong behind. The stink followed him out the door and down the hall, though, and after a minute or so Bran gave up and let it chase him down the stairs and out the side door, where the damp afternoon was a clean relief that tasted only of wet.

      It was barely three. An hour to go before tea and little enough to do with it, unless Bran wanted to exercise a bit, which he didn't. Even if he had been of a mind to, the whole house stank of vinegar and Bran wasn't enthused about going back into it. The afternoon was grey but pleasant enough for all that. After a few moments Bran pushed off the door and wandered out onto the driveway, without a clear goal in mind. He swung his arms and twisted about, not thinking about it, just moving for the sake of moving.

      He heard the voices as he drifted towards the back of the house. Not having anything better to do, Bran followed them. He knew it must be Claude and Jeremiah (because who else would it be?) but still, he couldn't positively identify them until he'd got a little closer, and by that point he could see the little dancing spark, like a beacon. Bran followed it on in. Soon enough he could smell the smoke, too.

      Claude sat comfortably on the steps that led up to the front porch of the guest cottage, a black-papered cigarette caught between his first two fingers. He was waving it about like punctuation instead of smoking it, which seemed like a waste to Bran. Jeremiah stood a couple of polite steps upwind, balanced on one foot with his hands clasped hard behind his back. He wasn't any too good at it—he wobbled a bit—but he was at least managing to not fall over. "Oi, Bran," he called, not bothering to lift a hand in greeting.

      Bran flipped Jeremiah a wave and headed that way, the gravel of the back path crunching underfoot. Claude stopped talking about whatever he'd been going on about and watched Bran arrive, taking a couple of sips off his cigarette while he waited. "This where the two of you bugger off to every afternoon?" Bran asked, once he was close enough.

      "Usually," Claude said, tapping ash off his cigarette.

      Jeremiah dropped his right foot and raised his left, stabilising a moment later with his hands still tucked behind himself. "We only talk, mostly. Well, he talks, mostly, on account of he knows lots about everything."

      "Aye, can't imagine what else you'd do out here." Bran punched Jeremiah's hip in passing. Jeremiah flailed both arms and took a giant hop away, one hand dotting off the guest cottage's front door as he fought to maintain his balance. For a miracle he got it, wobbling stork-like on his right foot with both arms out for balance. He wore the red leather bracelet about his knobby left wrist, the circle of leather so large that it was liable to slip off if he swung his arms too fast. Bran looked away; Jeremiah tucked his hands behind his back again.

      For a while the only sound was the faint crackle of burning paper from Claude's cigarette. Jeremiah, his eyes on the floor, worked on his balance; Bran couldn't think of much to say. He felt as though he were intruding—which was stupid. This was his home, wasn't it? Jeremiah, Claude, they were the interlopers, the late arrivals. Not him. "So what were you on about, then?" he asked, just to banish the silence.

      Claude's laugh was a tired little thing. "Wine, actually."

      Bran made a face. "Sounds deadly dull."

      "Wasn't," Jeremiah said loyally. "Although I did like the bits about clothes better. Never knew there was so much to it, clothing."

      "Oh, wine and fashion, a laugh a minute," said Bran. "S'pose you'll be talking about dancing next."

      "Ha!" Claude stubbed out his cigarette against the sole of his shoe. "Do I look like a man who dances?"

      Bran considered this for a moment and decided that he didn't care to spare anyone's feelings at the moment. "Not so much," he said. "More like a man who watches other people dance from the buffet."

      "I maintain that that means that I have my priorities in the proper order," Claude said, patting his belly. "And speaking of my priorities, I suppose I could go put on something for Ethan's tea. Any requests?"

      Jeremiah hopped from one foot to the other, wobbled, threw his arms out, and stabilised. "What are we having for supper?"

      Frowning in thought, Claude pushed himself to his feet with a faint 'oof'. "I'd thought pork. I've an astonishing tenderloin, and if I'm to cook that tonight, I'd best go put it in the wine."

      "Something sweet for tea, then," Jeremiah said decisively.

      "I rather suspected you'd say something of the sort," said Claude. "Are you two coming with?"

      "In a bit," said Jeremiah, wobbling again.

      Bran made a face. "Not me. Whole place smells of stop-bath."

      "Oh, that'll make tea taste lovely, I'm sure," Claude said, his round face pinching shut in an exaggerated wince that made his little beard bristle. He brushed a bit of ash off his shirt-front before heading off up the path towards the main house.

      Jeremiah glanced at Bran. "Claude says you have to know what's for supper before you can decide what to have for tea."

      "Makes sense," Bran said, not really interested. He considered pushing Jeremiah again and decided against it. Instead he wandered down to the end of the porch and leaned out, staring out at the dripping trees. There was a brownish clot up there that might be a bird's nest; he could climb up and see, if he got bored enough. Behind him Jeremiah had been reduced to the slight sounds of breathing and the squeak of his trainers on the boards.

      "He's all right, Claude is," Jeremiah eventually said. A squeak and a thump heralded his switching from one foot to the other again. "I was worried, a bit, but he's not bad at all. Cooks a treat, too."

      Bran grunted. Dismissing the possibly-a-bird's-nest from his mind—too wet for climbing trees—he turned about and leaned against the railing, watching Jeremiah waver in place. "It's not enough just to stand on one foot all the time, you know."

      "I know," Jeremiah said. His left foot was tucked in the crook of his right leg, neatly up and out of the way. "Only Ethan said I should learn to balance on one foot before I tried anything else."

      "Oh, aye. He told me that too," said Bran. "When I was seven, like."

      "S'pose you've had a head start, right enough." One corner of Jeremiah's mouth twitched up. "I'll catch you up, though."

      Bran snorted. "Right you will."

      "You'll see." Jeremiah unhooked his foot from behind his leg and carefully raised his knee, canting his body to the side to balance it. To overbalance it, as it turned out: his hands popped out from behind his back and he re-stabilised with his arms out.

      Bran shifted his weight onto his left foot in unconscious reaction. "Oh, aye, I've got ever so much to worry about, I can see."

      The smile that Jeremiah directed at him was thin and crooked and altogether unsettling. "That's right, laugh while you can," Jeremiah said, tucking his hands behind his back again. His knee jutted out at Bran like a rude gesture.

      Bran rolled his eyes and tucked his right leg up under himself like a stork. I won't wobble a bit, he told himself, and to his immense relief, he didn't. "Think I will," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Ha."

      Jeremiah snickered and aped Bran's posture, catching his ankle in one hand to pull it up the rest of the way. Eventually he even managed to fall still. For a few seconds they both stood there like that, a pair of storks on the front porch of the guest house—then it dawned on Bran how stupid he must look. His ears burning, he let his foot fall again, trying to pretend that he hadn't been doing anything so silly where anyone in the kitchen could see him.

      "Aaw, come on," said Jeremiah, his smile developing into a full-on twisted grin. He let go of his ankle and hop-leapt onto his other foot. "Do it again."

      "What for? No point in it," Bran said. "It's just standing on one foot, I don't need to practise that."

      Jeremiah shrugged. His expression never wavered. "Maybe I like watching you show off, you ever think of that?"

      Through an effort of will, Bran managed to divert his fish-mouthed stare into a weak "Piss off." It needed shoring up, so he jabbed his upraised fingers at Jeremiah.

      "I'm serious," Jeremiah said, although his smile was more mocking than anything. "Come on, don't be such a stick, do it again."

      Suspicious now, Bran scowled, searching over Jeremiah's statements to find the places where he was making fun. Jeremiah kept on looking at him expectantly, though, smiling and waiting, standing on one foot, and eventually Bran huffed out an aggravated "Fine, then!" and jerked his foot back up. All the while he watched Jeremiah like an eagle, just waiting for the triumphant, sniggering announcement that Jeremiah had only been taking the piss out of him. It didn't come. Jeremiah just watched Bran, his eyes raking eagerly from Bran's face to his stance and back.

      Once his suspicions were allayed—once he was almost certain that Jeremiah wasn't having a laugh at his expense—Bran started to enjoy it, a bit. His balance was quite good, always had been, and even if Jeremiah wasn't so easily awed as he had been at the beginning, still, he seemed impressed enough. Encouraged, Bran brought his leg up until his knee touched his chest, then stretched it out to the side, then tucked it underneath himself again.

      Jeremiah's little laugh wasn't mocking, but rather a huffed-out exclamation of admiration that was at odds with the weird smile. "You've got wicked balance," he said, experimenting with bringing his knee to his chest and nearly falling over.

      "S'natural," Bran said, puffing up a bit. Encouraged, he bent his supporting leg, slowly crouching until he hunkered one-legged a few inches above the boards of the porch. He wobbled a bit, but still managed. "Well, and loads of practice. Loads. You want to catch up, you'll be at it for a while, aye."

      "Good thing I've got a while," Jeremiah said. "How's that bit go—" He bent his knee in the spirit of experimentation. Bran winced, knowing from experience what was coming; sure enough, Jeremiah lurched forward and he went windmilling along the length of the porch, staggering to a halt a few steps closer to Bran. "Not like that," Jeremiah concluded, snickering and hoisting his right foot aloft again.

      "Not like that at all," Bran agreed. He pushed himself gently back upright, the muscles in his supporting leg as hard as brick. "Pillock like you ought to stick to standing about on one foot."

      Jeremiah's eyes dropped half-closed, narrowing to wicked little glints in the grey afternoon light. "I suppose you're right," he said. He tucked his raised right foot against the inside of his left thigh, his knee jutting rudely out to one side. It made him rock back and forth and he reached out and caught Bran's shoulder to steady himself.

      When had he got so close—Bran jerked so hard that he stumbled and nearly fell. Jeremiah was looking away, staring off at nothing as he pretended to concentrate on finding his balance, but the hand on Bran's shoulder lingered all the same—Jeremiah's thumb slipped awkwardly along Bran's collarbone and Bran knocked Jeremiah's hand away with more force than he'd intended.

      Jeremiah reeled back a step, his awkward balance all but gone, his smile changing into a stupid gape of shock. The moment his hand twitched away from Bran's shoulder Bran grabbed the railing behind himself and vaulted over it, landing badly on the rough ground beyond and stumbling forward a few steps. He'd put a railing and five feet between himself and Jeremiah, though, and he scrambled away with all due speed, hobbling a few steps before the shock to his ankle subsided.

      He risked one glance back as he fled (but of course he didn't flee at all, just left). Jeremiah was still standing on the porch, solid on two feet now, watching Bran's escape. It was probably just Bran's imagination that supplied the thoughtful expression.

      Ethan pushed open Bran's door, stuck his head in, and rapped lightly on the doorframe. "Your plans are here."

      Bran looked up. For a moment he hadn't the faintest idea what Ethan was talking about, but then he spotted the cardboard tube in Ethan's hand and it all came clear. "Bigger than I was expecting," Bran said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up.

      "Mm," said Ethan. "What were you expecting, then? A few folded-up papers in a brown envelope?"

      "Well... aye," Bran said. He could feel his cheeks reddening and he bit the side of his tongue savagely to make them stop. "Never seen a blueprint before, have I?"

      Ethan held out the plans. "I suppose there is that," he said. "What do you intend to do with these?"

      Bran paused with his hand outstretched, distracted by the odd question. "Er. Look at them?"

      It won him a bare smile and a tap on the knuckles with the tube. "I meant in general," said Ethan. "What do you intend to do with them when you aren't looking at them?"

      "Oh," said Bran, as the light dawned. "Oh. Well. Probably shouldn't tack them to my walls, should I."

      "I wouldn't recommend it, no."

      Bran took the plans from Ethan and folded his arms around them, clutching the tube to his chest like it was precious. "S'pose I'll keep them in the tube when I don't so much need them. And... ought to keep the tube out of sight. Somewhere safe."

      Ethan considered this for a moment, then inclined his head. "Where would that be, do you think?"

      "Well... ah... there's that cache inside the column in the sitting room," said Bran. "Could I use that?"

      "Fair enough." Ethan's smile was definitely present now. "I don't foresee any real problems, of course, but all the same it's best to practise good job discipline. Where would you put them if you weren't at home? If you were in a hotel, perhaps?"

      Bran blinked. "Ah... well... can't put them under the mattress, can I, you said that's the first place everybody looks—can't just tuck them in the closet—maybe... folded up behind the dresser? Seems right obvious, though..."

      "Well, think on it," Ethan said, putting his hand on the door-knob. "In the meantime, have a good look at your plans, then do go cache them before supper."

      "Right," Bran said faintly, as the door swung to. For a moment longer he stood there hugging the tube to his chest like a great idiot, then recalled himself and fumbled at the plastic bit at the end, popping it off. The papers slid into his hand in a heavy cylinder, a number of sheets each a metre or more on a side; Bran let the cardboard tube fall to the carpet and dropped the papers onto his desk, smoothing them out with both hands.

      The building plans revealed themselves to be a jumble of rectangles and numbers which didn't make a bit of sense. Bran scowled at them, then scanned over the paper, looking for any indication as to what he was looking at. It was one floor of the building, most likely, but which one? It didn't look like the ground-floor shop, but he'd never seen a building plan before. Maybe it was and he wasn't looking at it properly.

      Bran squinted at the first page until the sweat stood out on his forehead in little beads, then gave it up as a bad job and shuffled to the second page. It looked much the same: incomprehensible. The sweat on his forehead went cold. Stubborn to the end Bran flicked through the rest of the packet, hoping against hope that something would resolve or at least look different from the rest. How many sheets were there—Bran counted, then frowned, then counted again. Twenty-seven sheets of paper for a six-storey building, which meant that each of these pages wasn't even a whole floor, which meant that Bran's few tentative conclusions were all wrong and had to be pitched out...

      "Fuck," Bran wailed. He let go of the papers and they sprang back into a loose and wobbling roll. Bran made a vague aggravated gesture, then snatched up the papers again, coiling the roll up tight and jabbing its end at the tube rolling on the floor. The tube rolled around on the end of the roll of papers, then slipped free and skittered away across the carpet, forcing Bran to stick the papers under his arm and grab for the tube; by the time he had it he was so angry at everything in the universe (including himself) that he jammed the papers in any old way, bending corners and tearing the outside sheet a bit. Bran swept up the plastic end and wedged it onto the tube, then stalked downstairs.

      The sitting room was empty, the lights out. It smelt mostly of cleaning products and of the ancient davenport, which Ethan loved despite the constant smell of dust and horse-hair. Bran flicked on the lights and eased past the lurking chairs, kicking at a loose bit of skirting board concealed behind the table between them. The board jumped, the wainscoting above fell away from the wall, and Bran was able to poke his fingers back behind and pull a hidden catch free; the column next to him popped open like a laundry chute, revealing a deep and empty space within. Bran stashed the tube in the column and pushed it shut, then reset the catch and re-assembled the rest of the wall.

      He sulked all the way through supper, not that anyone noticed. Jeremiah was shovelling food into his mouth and listening raptly as Ethan and Claude talked about something or other—Bran didn't give a toss what they were on about. After the agony of supper was done, Bran dumped his dishes in the sink and ran to catch up with Ethan before Ethan could close himself up in the work-room and check out for the day. "Here, Ethan?"

      Ethan blinked at him mildly. "Yes?"

      "Could you—" Bran squirmed a bit and burst out with it "—could you teach me how to read building plans, like? Only I can't make heads or tails of them, it's just a bunch of squares..."

      "I suppose I could," Ethan said. "If you can tell me why you asked to have them in the first place."

      Bran scowled. "What d'you mean? You were always fetching plans for jobs or having plans fetched, I've heard a thousand of your stories—"

      "Is that why?"

      Bran flailed his arms. "Course it is!"

      "So... you don't know what it is that you're looking for."

      "No! I just thought... well, I should learn everything I can, right, so that I can make the right decisions, but I didn't know they were so complicated, like." Claude pushed on out of the dining room, waved, and headed for the back door and the guest cottage. Bran squirmed angrily until Claude was gone, then fixed Ethan with that scowl again. "I know you're just messing me about now, all right? So leave off and help me!"

      Ethan huffed out a small laugh. "Yes, all right, I admit it, I was taking advantage to quiz you a bit. Go and get the plans and bring them to the kitchen, please. I'll teach you both about building plans while I have this opportunity."

      Bran strangled on a protest, now angrier than ever, but in the end he couldn't make anything coherent out of it and stomped off to kick the skirting board again. By the time he got back to the kitchen he smelt of horse-hair and Jeremiah was done with the dishes and fidgeting in his seat. He was still wearing the leather bracelet, only pushed up along his skinny arm nearly to the elbow.

      Ethan accepted the tube and shook out the roll of papers, spreading them out on the kitchen table and weighing the corners down with the salt and pepper. Jeremiah rocketed out of his chair like he was on a spring, leaning on both hands to study the plans (as if he had any idea what they meant when Bran didn't) and Bran was forced to shove him aside in order to muscle in. Jeremiah thumped back into his chair with a startled yowl.

      "Boys," Ethan said absently, running his fingers over the topmost sheet. Bran snorted. Ethan didn't dignify that with a response, only paged through the papers, getting his thoughts in order. "Simple enough," he finally said. "Four flats per floor, see here, so you've the plans for each individual flat and then one for each whole floor, and then two sheets' worth of plans for the ground-floor shop. You see?"

      Jeremiah frowned at the papers, ticked his head to the side, frowned at them again, and announced, "I don't bloody well see it."

      Bran didn't either, but he wasn't about to admit it, so he restrained himself to an eye-roll and an annoyed 'tch' sound. Ethan's sudden little smile was embarrassing in and of itself, but Bran couldn't figure out which one of them Ethan was laughing at; Ethan only touched two fingers to a little box full of numbers in the corner and waited until both of them had gone quiet again. "All right," said Ethan. "If you'll just look here..."

      "These?" Jeremiah gasped, bursting back into the kitchen at full speed, a sheaf of photos clutched to his chest.

      Ethan took them from Jeremiah's wilting fingers as Jeremiah flopped back into his chair. "Yes, these, thank you, Jeremy." He paged through the pile of photographs, then started to lay them out in their proper places atop the two sheets of blueprint spread over the kitchen table from end to end.

      It didn't precisely click, but slowly Bran started to see the plans for what they were. He could tell what was what on the plans, what was a window and what a door, but he still found it next to impossible to envision the space in his head. The photos helped. Bran nudged one of the pictures over a bit, to check the bit of plan beneath.

      Jeremiah snatched up a picture to study it, then traded it for another. Bran roused himself. "Here, careful with those!"

      "They're not hurt at all," Jeremiah said, wrinkling his nose at Bran. "Don't be so mean."

      "But they aren't yours," Ethan interjected, "so treat them with some respect, please."

      Jeremiah ducked his head. "Right." He didn't put down the picture that he was holding, but he didn't snatch up another, either.

      "S'pose that all makes some sense now," Bran said slowly. "And I can see where the alarm wires are, so it's all to the good that I asked for the plans." He hesitated. "... wasn't it?"

      "Oh, yes," Ethan said, his little smile now simply maddening. "But you really ought to know why you need the things which you need, I think."

      Bran stuck out his tongue and blew a farting sound. "Ooh, preach on."

      "Thank you, I think I will." Ethan concealed his smile by looking back at the building plans, his finger tracing along one outside wall. "At any rate, the building security looks to be fairly ordinary for a shop of this sort."

      "Brilliant," said Bran. "Wouldn't want it to be too good or too bad. Either one is a problem."

      Ethan nodded—in approval, Bran was pretty sure. "Although it seems as though you've overlooked one thing."

      Through an effort of will Bran didn't quite hunch his shoulders. "What?"

      In answer, Ethan looked at Jeremiah, still clutching a photo and staring at it like he meant to memorise it. "Jeremy? Do you know?"

      "Do I know what?" Jeremiah said, head jerking up, eyes wide.

      "Do you know what part of the security system we haven't discussed yet?"

      "Oh." Jeremiah looked back down at his picture. "There's this metal grille here. Is that it?"

      "Metal grille?" Bran said, leaning forward. "What metal grille? You're having me on. I never saw anything like that."

      Ethan looked back at Jeremiah. "Would you care to show us?"

      Jeremiah put the picture back down and stabbed one grubby finger at it. "There," he said. "It's one of those that rolls up and down, like shops have over the windows, only that one rolls down behind the counter."

      Bran spun the picture around, pinning it down between his splayed fingers. Helpfully Jeremiah stabbed his finger at it again, indicating the shadow above the counter—if Bran squinted, he could make out the suggestion of bars in it, if only just. "Can't see a bloody thing," he muttered.

      "Try this one," Ethan said, pulling a second picture out from beneath it. Bran had taken it while glancing up towards the ceiling at the back counter, in the event that there was a security camera back there which he would have to worry about; the picture had no cameras in it, but an ominous rolled shadow off in one corner might have been a rolled-up security grille. Or it might not. Bran wasn't entirely certain.

      "That bit there." Jeremiah tapped the shadow. "At least, that's what it looks like."

      Ethan nodded. "I agree."

      "S'pose it must be, then," Bran grudgingly allowed. "So going in through the front is right out, not that it wasn't already, like."

      Ethan nodded again. "In that case, tell me what you're thinking in terms of entry."

      "Well—" Bran swallowed "—back door'd probably be the best, off the entry behind. It isn't perfect, not exposed like that, but I can't get through the vents, not on a building this small."

      "Keeping in mind that I agree with your assessment—" Ethan held up an admonitory finger "—tell me some alternate routes that you might also take."

      Bran darted a sour glance towards Jeremiah, then looked down at his knotted fingers. "Well..." Desperately wishing that Jeremiah wasn't about to listen in, Bran swallowed and plunged on. "There's no basement, so I can't get in that way. I'd thought that maybe in a pinch I could get into a flat just above the shop, like, and cut through the floor and the shop ceiling..." He trailed off there.

      "Clever," Ethan said, and the knot of embarrassed worry in Bran's stomach popped free on the instant. "But what if the flat's resident was, well, in residence?"

      Bran's stomach knotted right back up. "That's why I'd thought to let the flat myself," he mumbled at his knuckles. "Or have someone in the know let it for me, since I'm too young. Something that wouldn't get my name associated with it."

      Ethan took a breath, as if to argue, and Bran hitched out a little sound and plunged on. "Anyway it would work, honestly it would, all four flats on the first floor are over some bit of the shop or another, and anyway you're always saying how a proper job takes ages to plan—if I wait six months one of the flats would be sure to come up empty in that time!"

      "That is true—"

      "And I know it'd be a risk and all, someone's name and face associated with the flat, but it could be done, with enough care!" Bran whooped in a breath. "And maybe if I were very good I could take up the floor in some way that it could all be put back and no one would be the wiser as to how I got in, I don't know!"

      Having waited at least somewhat patiently through this entire breathless recital, Ethan waited a bit longer, then offered Bran a slight smile. "Well! I can see that you've given the drawbacks of this plan some thought. And it's quite a clever plan, although—much like the back door—it has its risks. Now, then. How else would you go about getting entrance?"

      "Well, I could go in through the front if I had to," Bran said, fidgeting. "It's exposed and all, and there's the grille, but it's still an option."

      "True. Any other ideas?"

      Bran threw up his hands. "Too right, I'll just smash a window and grab whatever's to hand, how's that?"

      "I'll take that to mean that you're temporarily out of clever ideas," Ethan said, his voice dry. Sweeping the photos off the building plans, he gathered them into a ragged stack. "Let's stop for now, shall we? Bran, do put the plans away properly—and you may as well put the photos in."

      "Aye, right," said Bran, settling.

      "And show Jeremy how to work the cache, while you're at it. I don't think I've shown him."

      Jeremiah perked up. "What's this?"

      "Secret hiding spot," Bran told him, as shortly as he could.

      "Aaw, brilliant!"

      Bran pushed the weights off the corners of the blueprints and watched the plans roll back up, the coil all soggy and flattened now that the papers had been weighted down for so long. He chivvied the roll into the cardboard tube while Ethan tapped the stack of photos on the table and put them back into their envelope and Jeremiah fidgeted impatiently, screeching the rubber sole of his shoe against the floor in his hurry to be off. It made Bran roll his eyes and smack at Jeremiah with the back of his hand, a swat that failed to connect as Jeremiah ducked away from it.

      Ethan handed Bran the envelope, then dropped back into his chair, momentarily going spineless as he slumped against its back. "My God, I'm getting old," he told no one in particular, directing his little smile up at a random bit of the kitchen ceiling. "At any rate. Go on. Leave an old man to his thoughts."

      "Ech, not this again," Bran said, snatching up the tube and adding it to his burden. "I'll just be leaving before you start blubbering into your hands."

      "Yes, yes, go," Ethan said, waving a hand in the vague direction of the door.

      Bran didn't need telling—he was already heading that way, Jeremiah so close on his heels that he kept nearly treading on the backs of Bran's shoes in his puppyish eagerness. Bran put up with it until they were in the hall and safely away from Ethan's eyes, then whirled about to give Jeremiah a shove—Jeremiah danced backwards on the instant, out of arm's reach. Bran bared his teeth at him. Jeremiah only gave Bran a superior grin, shuffling his feet and waiting, and eventually Bran gave up and headed for the sitting room, trying to ignore him.

      The stink of horse-hair had never seemed so bad as when Bran put on the lights and led Jeremiah into the sitting room. "S'behind those chairs there," he said, gesturing awkwardly with the end of the tube. "Go and look at the skirting board, there's a scuffed spot—give it a bit of a kick. Not hard, mind, or Ethan'll have your neck."

      Immediately entranced, Jeremiah eeled back behind the chairs and craned his neck to squint at the wall. "Here?" he said, toeing at the wall. The wainscoting shuddered and fell forward, and despite himself Jeremiah jumped back, nearly tumbling over the chair.

      "That's it," Bran said. Suddenly he felt a bit better. "Anyway, look behind the board there and there's a bolt, you just catch it in two fingers and draw it out."

      Jeremiah craned his neck again, then wriggled his fingers into the gap and felt around. Eventually there was a click and the column beside Jeremiah fell open; this time, more or less prepared, Jeremiah didn't jump, only twitched back a bit. "Wicked," he said, leaning in to peer into the exposed space.

      "Shove off," said Bran, poking the back of Jeremiah's head with the tube. Jeremiah drew back a bit, looking hurt (although it didn't look like honest hurt to Bran) and Bran was able to drop the plans and the envelope of pictures into the cache without further incident. "Then you just put this back—" Bran shoved the column back into place and put his shoulder against it "—and you push the bolt back in."

      Jeremiah glanced at Bran sidelong, then eased on in and slipped two fingers blindly into the gap. There wasn't room for the both of them back there, not without touching, and Jeremiah's shoulder brushed against Bran's as he felt about behind the panel, the tip of his tongue poking out. Bran shrank back and caught himself shrinking back at the same time. His cheeks heated. Underneath Jeremiah's fingers the bolt finally slotted into place with a soft clunk. "Push the board back," Bran said, his voice thick.

      After a pause, Jeremiah put both hands against the boards and guided them back into place. They settled into place with a second, more wooden thump. "That's terrific," Jeremiah breathed, not moving away. "How many of these has he got?"

      "Three or four that I know of," Bran said. He was still leaning against the column, unwilling or unable to move; his voice dropped to a matching whisper because he couldn't stop it from doing so. "Probably got loads more but Ethan says he never tells all his secrets."

      "We could go looking for them," Jeremiah said, dropping his voice to a hoarse, excited whisper and swaying in. "Who knows what sort of swag he's got tucked away—"

      "Bloody little thief!"

      "—not to take," Jeremiah said, hurt. "Just to look at. Anyway, you're a thief. You're a real thief. You're planning a big job and all."

      Abruptly Bran became all too aware of how they were standing, huddled together against the wall like a pair of conspirators (or something else entirely), and he lurched away from the column and stumbled free. "Wouldn't steal from Ethan, though," he said. "That's your lookout, isn't it, creeping about nicking things from Ethan?"

      "Only the once!" Jeremiah said, coming upright in his indignation. "And anyway I didn't know him then, did I? Only thought he was some rich bastard who could spare a few trinkets, particularly if he left a bloody window open like an invitation!"

      "S'pose you learned your lesson," Bran said. "I'll always remember the screaming, I will, and you going arse over tit down the back stairs..."

      "Well, I know better than that now, don't I," said Jeremiah. Belatedly he also slid out from behind the chairs, heading for the door. "And you don't need to be such a pillock about it—" His hand flicked out and killed the sitting-room lights, plunging Bran into the darkness. The dark shape of him flashed across the lighted doorway and vanished again.

      Bran sighed out an annoyed breath through his teeth, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and also for the unpleasant tingle of surprise to fade from his spine. He didn't spend that much time in the sitting-room but all the same he knew where everything was, and he picked his way towards the door as sure-footed as a cat, hands dotting off the furniture as he went.

      He'd barely gained the doorway before the hall lights went out in their turn. Bran had caught a brief glimpse of Jeremiah at the far end of the hallway, one hand on the switch, and so this time he didn't have to suffer through that jolt of surprise; he only rolled his eyes and picked his way towards the stair, moving with more confidence down the unfurnished hallway.

      He'd gone maybe ten steps before Jeremiah pounced on him from behind, flinging skinny arms around Bran and pinning his arms to his sides. Startled, Bran choked off a shriek before it could be born—he hadn't even heard Jeremiah moving down the hall—suddenly they were staggering back down the hallway together, one awkward creature with four legs and a death-grip on itself, and Jeremiah was saying something, laughing and gloating both, and Bran had never been so scared in his life—he jerked forward and thrashed his way free, no great trick, then whipped about and shoved Jeremiah away from him with all his strength. Jeremiah went reeling back, hitting the wall hard enough to shake the whole house, or so it seemed. Bran could still hear him laughing.

      "Christing little fuck!" Bran half-screamed, everything in his cracking voice that shouldn't be there, and before things could get any worse he spun on his heel and ran for the stairs.

      Make him stop, Bran prayed, mentally wailing the words like a cheated three-year-old. He was kneeling by the side of his bed, right enough, but his hands were folded protectively over his head instead of properly, in front of him. For the longest time it was the only thing he could think, make him stop, make him stop, over and over like a mantra.

      Eventually Bran calmed enough to think he needs to stop instead. He was still shaking, though, and he lay awake long after he'd given over kneeling and begging God for His favour, any favour. Bran's prick was a bar of hot iron inside his pants and nothing terrified him more than the thought of touching it, of needing to touch it, of needing to touch it because of Jeremiah. It ached long into the night. Bran ignored it as best he was able, and eventually he fell into a light and restless sleep, still hard.