The Runner (Part I of the Runner Series)

Chapter 3

My heart beats heavily in my chest while adrenalin courses through my veins. I grow bolder and swipe a jewelled hair comb from the top of a hall table. This piece alone ought to be enough to keep my landlord off my back and deep in mugs of ale for a few weeks.

I find a couple of young maids on the main stairwell to the first floor. They cast me curious glances but say nothing so I continue downstairs, intent on some silverware from the kitchen.

I am heading toward the back of the house, the pouch at my waist clattering softly, when my attention is diverted by a half-open door and the room beyond. Before I can stop myself, my feet are moving of their own accord and I am slipping into the library.

Wiping a rag absentmindedly over the bookcases, I allow myself a look upward to take in the miraculous collection. Books. Books lining every wall from ceiling to floor, in every colour I could ever imagine, their gold and silver bindings flashing cheerily in the afternoon sunlight.

I run my hand over the titles, enjoying the scratchy feeling of the covers beneath my fingertips. One beautiful green spine catches my eye and I reach for it, cracking open the cover and breathing in the familiar, musty scent. Memories swirl through my head as I allow the comforting aroma to return me to a time spent in a tiny flat, listening to my father read aloud by lanternlight. The floor of our flat was always stacked with his books, grouped together in hodgepodge piles on the floor—

"Have you read it?" A voice behind me breaks through my thoughts.

I jump, sending the green book crashing to the ground. My face burns as I stoop to retrieve it, the pouch beneath my apron digging conspicuously into my ribs.

"I, uh, was just putting it back." I struggle to regain my composure, deliberately avoiding looking at the stranger as I carefully place the book back on the shelf. I hear him step closer and turn back around, keeping my eyes trained on the floor. A pair of worn leather boots appear in front of me. The choice of footwear suggests that I've encountered a servant, but as my gaze travels upward, I note a pair of fine leather gloves tucked into his belt, embossed with a kind of crest or insignia. I've been caught by a courtier.

Damn.

"My apologies, sir. I'll just get back to my duties..." I attempt an awkward curtsy and step to the side.

"It's a shame, isn't it?" I detect a note of humour in his voice. "My father keeps an entire room full of books but not a person in this house will read them, much less discuss them."

I halt in my tracks, startled that this man with the dusty boots and handsome gloves would continue a conversation with a servant girl.

"I never read that particular book, but my father owned a copy," I say, the words falling out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Put a stopper in it, Kay.

"There we are! Your father is a fan of Tolstoy?" he presses.

I raise my eyes and look up at him, arrested suddenly by a pair of steely grey eyes. The man looks to be only a little older than me, tall and broad, dressed in a plain, collarless linen shirt with the top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He sports a short, dark beard and his hair is cropped close to his head in a rough style. I am struck by his grooming; most men of his station pride themselves on their polish, typically opting to shave their chins and oil their hair. I complete my assessment, noting a light sheen of sweat on his throat, which tells me he has recently come from the outside. If it weren't for the quality of his clothes, I would have taken this man for a commoner, perhaps even considered him attractive.

I need to end this conversation and get out of this stolen dress immediately.

"Tolstoy was his favourite." I smile a little at the memory.