In the great and dusty library of my mind, some shelves were always padlocked.
But now, they creaked.
The memories trickled back—not all at once, but like breadcrumbs scattered by a slightly disorganized squirrel god with illegible handwriting.
I remembered being an orphan.
I remembered the cold porridge.
I remembered stealing apples, stuffing them in my pillowcase, and trading them with two snot-nosed kids from the bed next to mine—kids who were younger, louder, and thoroughly convinced I could lead them to greatness.
One was Pip, who sported a thatch of hair that defied gravity and a tooth gap you could toss a coin through. The other was Nibs, who seemed allergic to both rules and, occasionally, the concept of verticality. They had followed me out of the orphanage without question, waddling after me like ducklings with marbles in their pockets and dreams too big for their tiny shoes.
"I can steal!" Nibs had proudly declared on our first night out. He then promptly got his hand stuck in a pastry case and cried so pathetically that the baker, overcome with secondhand embarrassment, gave him a tart just to make it stop.
We'd been together ever since.
And then there was the parrot.
Sir Pecks-a-Lot, a retired pirate's parrot (we believed), who had a repertoire of fifty-seven insults, five tax loopholes, and a passionate interest in municipal reform. He lived in my satchel and had never once been quiet on purpose.
Today, we had a plan.
Lady Petronella von Butterfrost was hosting her annual Garden Gala—a confectionary nightmare of absurd opulence. They said her collection of gems could pay off the national debt. She owned a talking goose, three sugar golems, and a cane that doubled as a flamethrower. Naturally, we thought: Perfect. Let's rob her.
The plan was as follows:
Infiltrate disguised as a novelty string quartet. (None of us played, but Pip believed deeply in the power of his kazoo.)
Locate the vault under her pastry wing.
Avoid combat-trained butlers, possessed éclairs, and any goose-related enchantments.
Escape. No theatrics. No regrets.
We made it to step two and a half before everything fell apart.
"Oi!" Pip shouted, ducking behind a pyramid of candied swans. "We've got company!"
I turned, pocketing a silver fork as I bolted.
Behind us, weaving between butter sculptures and confused violinists, came a palace guard. But not the bumbling kind. No, this one moved like a dancer. A swordsman. Sharp boots, sharper eyes. And his hat—well, his hat meant business.
He was gaining.
We tore through the courtyard, barely dodging a gelatin tower. Pip and Nibs screamed. From inside my coat, Sir Pecks-a-Lot squawked, "EVASIVE MANEUVERS!"
But I slowed.
Just a little. Just long enough to look back.
The guard's eyes locked on mine—deep brown, sharp with alarm. And something else. Something raw and aching.
My breath caught.
I didn't know him.
And yet—I did.
Something inside me twisted. A recognition just beneath the surface, humming like static before a storm.
"THISTLE, RUN!" Pip yelled.
I snapped out of it and ran, diving behind a tapestry of raccoons mid-minuet. The guard didn't follow. Not right away. He simply watched me go, his brow furrowed as if he, too, was trying to remember something lost.
We vanished into the twilight, sticky-fingered and breathless.
Back at the hideout, Pip and Nibs collapsed in a heap of spoons and half-stolen éclairs. Sir Pecks-a-Lot muttered, "That copper's got the face of a poem and bother in his bones."
I sat in front of the fire, turning a ruby hairpin over in my hands. It caught the light like a question.
Who was he?
And why did his eyes feel like the opening line to a story I used to know by heart?