The scheme was straightforward.
Which, by Thistle's standards, meant it had been slapped together on charred toast, propped up by desperation, and practically begging to catch fire.
Their mark: Percival Fogsby, heir to the Fogsby Scone Empire and the unfortunate buffoon currently parading the stolen brooch like a pigeon wearing a crown.
According to a giggly pigeon Pecks had bribed with a sleeve of crackers, Percival would be attending the weekly Gentlemen's Literary & Crumpet Club—a gathering infamous for appalling poetry, flaky pastries, and even flakier egos.
Perfect.
Thistle cracked her knuckles in the alley behind the club.
"Alright. We go in, blend, retrieve the gem. No theatrics. No fires. No pies in faces unless absolutely necessary."
Nibs, who had already smuggled three pies into his sleeves, looked mildly betrayed.
Pips adjusted his cravat. "How do we blend in with rich, self-absorbed men?"
Thistle slapped a beard on him. "By being rich, self-absorbed men."
Sir Pecks-a-Lot fluttered to her shoulder, draped in a tea-cozy cloak and sporting a monocle.
"You didn't mention poetry, Thistle. If someone rhymes 'love' with 'dove' again, I will commit a war crime."
"You'll behave," she hissed.
"I'll need biscuits," he grumbled.
Inside the Crumpet Club
The air reeked of lemon zest and misplaced ambition.
Dozens of lords reclined in velvet chairs, reciting tortured verse and nibbling jam-soaked cakes with the hollow intensity of men who'd never known a proper day's work.
Percival glowed like a cherub, seated near the front, the brooch glittering on his chest as if it belonged there.
Thistle strode in and announced, in her deepest baritone, "Ah! I am Baroness Thistlethwaite Featherbottom, Esq.—connoisseur of couplets and woeful waistcoats."
No one blinked.
One man even clapped. Possibly from confusion.
"A fellow poetess! Splendid! Read something, madam!"
Thistle elbowed Pips forward.
He froze, blinked, and blurted:
"Ode to a foola clown and brave,You stir the depthsOf every grave—"
Polite applause. One sob.
They were in.
The Extraction Plan
Step One: Flatter Percival.Step Two: Distract.Step Three: Yoink.
Simple.
Thistle approached in the guise of a Countess of Avant-Garde Accessories.
"Darling brooch! Is that an imitation Star of Ambré? So delightfully vulgar, it's practically charming."
Percival stiffened. "I beg your pardon. It's genuine."
Thistle gasped. "Oh, dear. Then I'm afraid you've been taken in. I've seen dozens of perfect knock-offs just like it in the street markets of—ah—Lower Spindle Alley."
Percival gaped. "You're joking."
"Not at all. Here—Nibs, show him mine."
Nibs, disguised as a well-padded duchess, waddled over and produced a "brooch" made of a sardine tin lid covered in glitter glue.
Percival held both up, squinting hard.
"They… are rather alike."
Step Four: Swap the brooches.Step Five: Flee.
What Actually Happened:
Nibs sneezed. His prosthetic teeth launched across the room.Pecks dove after them like a cannonball.Pips tried to apologize and spilled tea all over Percival.Percival shrieked.Thistle grabbed the brooch as someone screamed, "THIEVES!"
They ran.
Back in the Alley
Pips wheezed. "Did we get it?"
Thistle slowly opened her hand.
A sardine lid glittered up at them.
Sir Pecks-a-Lot collapsed face-first into a muffin.
"Well," Thistle said, "on the bright side… we weren't arrested."
"Yet," Nibs groaned, flicking jam off his collar.
They all glared at the sardine lid.
Thistle squinted. "Round two?"
Pecks raised a wing. "I'm bringing explosives."