Ronan Hastings thought in lists.
Depending on who you asked, this might be called a strategy, a shortcoming, a merit, or a crutch. Maybe even a coping mechanism. To Ronan, it was no different than a map or a compass: a tool to navigate the buzz in his mind and refine thoughts which, if left unattended, would well and rush and crash until they came overflowing from his ears.
Most of his internal catalogs were short and long-lost, serving a fleeting purpose and then forgotten. Only one, six years in the making, had ever made it out of his mind and onto paper, and Ronan made a mental note now to log an addition in his journal once he made it home.
Reason #54 I can't stand the rich: their shoes are terrible for running.
The lawn stretched endlessly between the window he had just thrown himself through and the mossy wall that fortified the mansion (see Reason #52). Ronan was no stranger to running, and certainly no stranger to running away, but the pinprick stings of budding blisters had already taken root along his heels, and he dreaded what he would see when he kicked the leather bastards off.
Whiplash was the first over the wall, scaling the expanse of stone with ease and perching at the top with feline balance. A whip of her wrist, and the roll of rope in her hand unwound for Ronan to catch. If she struggled to hold his weight as he followed her up, her grimace was hidden in the shadow of her mask. Ronan knew better, anyway. She could handle him just fine.
Knuckle was a different story. Ronan took the rope and Whiplash wrapped steadying arms around his waist, but the two of them still nearly toppled off the narrow ledge as he hauled his weight up with one arm, two bulging sacks held over his shoulder with the other. His feet had hardly landed on the ridge when Whiplash dropped to the other side without so much as a thud, arms extended to catch each bag thrown her way. Ronan handed the rope off to Knuckle and prepped to follow her down, but before he could push off the wall, a self-important voice boomed from below.
"Stop where you are and put your hands in the air!"
Ronan did stop where he was, dangling from the wall by his palms. Ronan did not put his hands in the air. He valued the well-being of his ankles.
He pulled himself up onto his forearms with eyes peeled wide. Sure enough, racing across the moonlit grass was an unfortunately broad man in a red coat and haughty epaulets. One of Van Doren's guards.
Facing him at the base of the wall, just shy of escape, were Robin, Genie, and the rookie.
Knuckle reared on his perch like a wolf ready to pounce, but Ronan muttered, "Don't," behind closed teeth.
He nodded forward and down, directing Knuckle's gaze back to the guard, and the barrel of a rifle pointed at Robin's chest.
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In Ronan's defense, he normally had more time to plan an escape.
For the typical job, he got the chance to scan the location beforehand, taking note of every entrance and exit and determining what he could about the interior.
A disheartening series of inconveniences had turned this job distinctly atypical.
Upper-crust news didn't exactly travel in their circle; Robin hadn't learned of Tobias Van Doren's grand opening ball until that morning. What with the hour-long foot-travel time from the nearest passenger train to this godforsaken mansion, the prolonged disappearance of their horses, though unsurprising, made last-minute intel gathering an impossibility. Ronan felt the anxious thrill of the unknown now more than ever, perched on the sturdiest upper branch of a tall oak at dusk, gathering what he could about the Van Doren mansion from beyond the wall.
"Are you positive that's the only way in?" Robin called up from the ground below. This high up and in the dark, Ronan wouldn't be able to see his expression even without the mask, but after knowing him for so long, Ronan could hear the dubious eyebrow raise in Robin's voice. He entertained the thought of dropping off of the branch onto his head. "Do you need to climb another tree?"
"This is the eighth one. You couldn't pay me to climb another tree." That was a blatant lie. Knowing what might wait on the other side of that wall, Ronan would climb a hundred trees if he needed to. But he didn't; he knew he was right.
After a scorned-business-partner-turned-maniac hired an assassination attempt on Tobias Van Doren in a last-ditch grab for control of their trade company, Van Doren had been struck neurotic. With money to spare and power to protect, he answered to each of his anxieties in excess. From his paranoia had sprouted the wall they faced now, tall as some of the surrounding trees and twice as imposing, and a permanent staff of guards to stand watch outside of the home within.
After mounting eight trees, Ronan was working with a hasty but trustworthy mental map of the house's exterior. Gaudy granite fountain and rectangular hedges out back, white stucco facade and stone-paved path out front, very little useful cover. There were four entrances in total, each marked by at least two armed guards. Hordes of jewel-encrusted guests trickled through the only open doorway to the main event of the night: a lavish masquerade ball to celebrate Tobias Van Doren's newly-constructed private ballroom. (Not to be confused with the perfectly adequate drawing room, built with the house, that had doubled as a dance hall for years prior.)
Reason #12 Ronan couldn't stand the rich: they upended their bottomless pockets on everything they could never hope to need while the rest of Diverra barely scraped by.
The mansion's strict square design promised little in the way of blind spots along the guarded front, back, and left faces of the house. There was only one other option, and it dashed any hopes of an easy heist.
On the house's right side, the square regularity of the glazed-brick walls gave way halfway across to the octagonal slope of the ballroom. The right wall had no entrance and no guards, and the only doors to the ballroom stood at its front, welcoming the guests inside. The place where the ballroom met the house was a dark spot on the estate, shielded from backdoor guards by the back-right corner of the house. If they approached from the right angle and didn't cause a scene, they could slip in unnoticed through a window.
It was great in theory, but Robin didn't spare his eyebrow raise for great scenarios. No, that look was reserved for situations such as this: to bypass the watchmen, they would have to break in through one of the ballroom windows and make their way to the house itself from the inside.
Packed with an entire social class of witnesses and surrounded by red-coated guard dogs, the Van Doren ball could end them.
But it was an opening they couldn't ignore. Homes like Van Doren's were open, waiting treasure chests – they didn't need to bust into any vaults to find gold. The very sheets off their bedspreads could probably buy Ronan's childhood home six times over, and with the household tied up in the event, tonight offered a rare chance to find the manor vulnerable at night.
"Talk to me, Skeleton," urged Robin. "How are we getting in?"
Ronan had been inside his fair share of ballrooms. A drawing room made an easy entry point for an unsuspecting home, so he had come to expect their design: a rectangular space with a high ceiling, dressed to blend in with the house from the outside. He couldn't possibly have anticipated this.
The Van Doren dance hall competed with the house for attention and won, stretching like a tower three stories high and glowing – glowering – gold as a beacon, disrupting the house's symmetry as if to say ogle me, admire how I shine. It was a condescending exhibition of wealth, a showcase of old- and new-money blended into one by one of the richest men on Diverra. And Ronan was the one tasked with breaching it.
"I'd wager the upper floors each make up a mezzanine," he said, parsing the list he'd been scribbling behind his eyes since Tree #1 for the most relevant information. The windows of the second and third stories glowed yellow, but there were spots of darkness along the ground floor. "Only some of the windows on the bottom floor are lit. There must be a back hallway of sorts with individual rooms, and I say we aim for that one."
He pointed to dark, domed glass, tucked out of sight near the junction between ballroom and house.
"He knows we can't see what he's pointing at, right?" Knuckle stage-whispered. Ronan slipped down the tree with the satisfaction of knowing how badly he would struggle to squeeze his shoulders through the little window.
Whiplash nudged her head toward the black cloth bag Knuckle dangled absentmindedly from his pinkie finger, her mouth twisted with disdain beneath the nose of her mask.
"I'm guessing we're going to need those." She didn't sound happy about it.
Robin's frown was identical to hers. With a deeply regretful sigh, he said, "Let's hope they aren't too wrinkled. We are officially switching to Plan B."
Getting over the wall was simple. Whiplash mounted and dangled her rope so Ronan could follow, and together, they held on as Knuckle climbed to the top, then watched from the bottom as he heaved the rest up and over.
Ronan led the group in a tight single file toward the target window, visualizing their approach as a footpath cut into the lawn. Pressed back-to-chest and low to the ground, They moved as quickly as they could without risking discovery and as quietly as the short grass allowed. He felt the group's anxiety like his own, escalating step after step. Reason #52 I can't stand the rich: their yards never end.
Finally faced with the window, he couldn't tell what lay within, but he wanted to laugh at what he encountered on the outside. Casement windows made for a painless bust. The glass was a welcome chill against his palms on a muggy night, and after a few seconds and some well-placed wriggles, the lock on the inside came undone.
"I still don't understand how you do that," Knuckle muttered from the back of the line. He was violently shushed; Ronan was willing to bet money it was Robin. Somebody else laughed. Ronan would bet even more money it was Whiplash.
He drew the window open and loped one leg over the ledge. The floor was a short drop down. The rest filed through: Whiplash, then Robin, then the rookie, then Genie, then Knuckle. Least to most clumsy; in the case that Mister Two-left-feet or his friend, Sir Hands-for-feet, forgot their basic motor skills, the rest were already situated for damage control.
The moonlight was replaced first by blackness as Genie drew the window and curtains, then a splotch of warmth as a wall-mounted candle flickered to life. Robin locked the door, snuffing the match between his fingertips as he went.
The room was a perfect square, smaller than its sky blue wallpaper and marble tile made it feel. Against one wall, a four-legged washstand with ornate amber detailing stood beneath a circular mirror, and at the other, two armchairs angled around a round glass table where Knuckle had already made himself comfortable. He sifted through the bag, his mouth falling open in silent agony as he withdrew the first item.
"These'll come up to my fucking nipples." He marveled at the fitted black trousers the same way one marveled at an approaching tornado.
"Those wouldn't fit over your calves, let alone your thighs," said Whiplash. "They're yours."
Ronan paled when he looked her way and found her eyes already on him. He was so stressed by the– the shape– of those pants, he almost missed the insult. The pants would fit over Knuckles' calves easily, thank you very much, and he was ready to make this petulant point when she tossed them his way. Ronan was suddenly crotch-to-face. He'd barely gotten his hands on the fabric when more pieces were thrown vaguely in his direction, each more unsavory than the last. The final items – a pair of dress shoes and a blood-red mask – dealt some damage upon collision.
Ronan glanced at the mirror, bidding his black ensemble of linen shirt, loose trousers, and scuffed boots a wistful goodbye. Reason #53 I can't stand the rich: their outfits have too many layers.
By the time he finished changing, his hair was in disarray and the pants had journeyed so far up his ass, he was pretty sure he could taste them. His top half suffocated under the weight of a black shirt, an embroidered black vest, and a crimson velvet waistcoat. He patted his clothes to his chest to remind himself that the contents of his toolbelt lined the inner pockets of his coat, but he still felt powerless without it. Shiny leather crushed his big toe, slippery black satin had replaced his leather gloves, and a cravat hung limp and abused around his neck.
Despite the bruise it had probably left above his eyebrow, the mask in his hands was the least bothersome piece. It was elegant and simple, adorned by a strip of black along each edge and just large enough to hide his face from the nose up.
"You couldn't have gotten something more comfortable?" Knuckle whined and crassly adjusted the groin of his pants. His getup was almost identical to Ronan's, only his vest glimmered with tawny gold trimming offset by the deep veridian of his coat. "I think my asshole just ate my balls."
Whiplash didn't care to witness his plight. She slipped between Ronan and his dejected glare at the cravat in the mirror. Uncharitable, yet somehow merciful. The line of her mouth was bored and distinctly unsympathetic. "How about next time, you sleep with the tailor, that way you can be fitted for size," she snarked around the hairpins in her teeth as she twisted her long black braid behind her head. "You have no idea what I had to do to get all of this on such short notice."
"We don't want to," said Robin.
Knuckle ignored them both in favor of more moping. His cravat was tied in a bow. Double-knotted. "It's not fair. You look great."
Pinched into a corset and draped in deep purple, flaunting a high waist and a low bust that were a touch too flattering to be strictly appropriate, Whiplash looked every inch the role she was meant to play tonight. Rouge reddened her lips and cheeks, and Ronan watched as she fiddled with her eyelashes. Her beauty had never been close to understated, but it was disastrous now, a storm rolling in to devastate the halls they had come to haunt. She was a predator in prey's garb, a fox wearing a songbird's feathers.
She was a sight to behold, even as she tugged restlessly at the bodice of her dress. Ronan looked from the supple pink of her mouth to the dark curl of her lashes and gave in to the envy that twined, hot and inevitable, around his ribs. He allowed it for a second, then two, until she caught him staring and he schooled his face into a grin.
"Just how many people did you sleep with to make all this happen?" he jeered. "You had half a day, maxim–"
Swift as lightning, Whiplash snatched Ronan's sad cravat and flung it at him. It slapped him silently across the face. He cackled, she snickered, and on the other side of the room, Robin drowned it all out with an anguished groan.
"Can we not discuss my sister's sexual choices?" came his miserable plea. When nobody coddled him, he grudgingly returned to turning his pants around and trying them on again for the third time.
"Your sister's sexual choices are about to make us a fortune, Robin Hood." Ronan's smile was sadistic, Robin's sigh tortured. "Now, have any of you figured out how to put this on?" He pointed to the cravat dangling over his collar, tacking on a "Not you" when Knuckle opened his mouth. Knuckle frowned down at his bow.
Short and silvery, a laugh rang at Ronan's side and startled the tie right off his shoulder. He had damn near forgotten there was a sixth person in the room. Despite his frame, the rookie could take up no space at all when he pleased. His appearance over Ronan's shoulder sent nerves skipping down his spine.
The rookie bent at the waist to fetch the cravat, flashing a streak of silver. His coat was longer at the sides to conceal the dagger sheathed across his back, but Ronan glimpsed it as he stooped and wondered what other weapons hid beneath admiral blue velvet. He had no reason to believe any of them would be drawn against him, but he couldn't rule out the possibility, either.
"Come here, I'll help you."
It had been over a month since the rookie had shouldered his way onto their team, but despite their tentative friendship, Ronan's wariness was steadfast and stubborn. The man had no story, no surname, no goal; just a quiet, unsettling confidence, a criminal history so tumultuous he couldn't even tell them about it, and an arsenal of weapons that could take them out in a matter of minutes if he knew how to use it. Every time Ronan thought he might begin to understand him, the rookie flipped his expectation on its head. He did that now, with the assured raise of his chin and the glow of warm brown skin in the candlelight. As he came before Ronan, he stood taller than ever, the short few centimeters between them stretching long. Dark eyes glittered, open and amused, and for once, Ronan felt like he wasn't hiding anything.
"Did I do alright?" Ronan gestured down at his ensemble. His stomach just about caved in on itself as the rookie's eyes flicked down and up his figure. Was he assessing Ronan's appearance, or taking note of his weak points?
He offered a smile, earnest and encouraging. "You clean up well."
That was the other thing. Ronan expected the worst every time, but the rookie was good-natured despite his secrecy and his possible serial-killer past. Somehow Ronan always ended up feeling rotten for doubting him. "You look like a prince," he said, because it assuaged his guilt and because it was true. "Your hair is all. Whoosh."
"Oh? Whoosh, you say?" He exaggerated the curve of his mouth around the word like he was taste-testing it. Smugness wasn't anything new from him, either. He was kind of a jerk. It was all very confusing.
The last place Ronan wanted the rookie's hands was at his neck, but he tipped his chin back nonetheless as they wound up there now, folding and flipping and tucking black silk. The rookie had stepped close to work, making it a challenge to avoid eye-contact, but Ronan managed by staring down the space above his left shoulder. He inspected one sienna armchair and counted the seconds as his fingers twitched around nothing at his hips.
His count screeched to a halt as black and gold stepped into frame. Robin sagged into the chair with his legs seated wide, black stretched tight across his thighs, and heaved a sigh like dressing was the most tiresome thing he'd ever done. He was complete, save for the top buttons of his shirt and the cravat abandoned around his neck. Errant brown hair fell loose from its tie onto his forehead as he tilted his neck back, and then he was all jawline and collarbone and Adam's apple, and Ronan suffered. There was a mole beneath his chin, another at the base of his throat, a third half-hidden on his collar. One pale hand drummed against the armrest, the other swept water-slicked hair back. Ronan's heart battered his lungs.
Robin Hood was a calamity in a suit.
"There." The rookie leaned back to admire his work. His proud grin gave way to the puzzled purse of his lips, and his eyes danced over Ronan's figure before finally landing atop his head. He let out a hum and, without warning, used one hand to sweep Ronan's disheveled hair into order. Dusting the charcoal smearing his palm on his pants, he nodded his satisfaction.
Genie's interjection was a welcome break. "Mind fixing up the rest of us?" He stood at the mirror, sulking at his reflection, where Ronan could see his tie twisted into what might have been a sailing knot.
The rookie conquered the disaster with minimal struggling and turned to find a short line of two had formed behind him. Every neck in the room was properly decorated before long, and with that, assembly time ran out.
With one sweeping wave of his hand, Robin steered all eyes his way.
"Masks on, Merry Men," he said, like he did every time. On his face and in his stance, discomfort had given way to electric anticipation. He rubbed his hands together, eyes alight with a familiar spark, and met every stare in the room. That spark became a forest fire. Those words, that look, they were intoxicating; they dripped into the blood like alcohol, drew their focus like an archer drew his bow.
The night had unwritten their formula at every possible angle, and it would only get worse from here, but this moment would never change. Under the almost-familiar weight of the mask, Ronan blinked long and hard and breathed into the feeling of being steadied at last after an evening of wobbling off-kilter. He felt more than saw the thrill that rippled over the group, converging on their focal point. Robin's lips curled, sharp and dangerous, into a good-for-nothing grin.
Knuckle cracked his neck. Whiplash smoothed the front of her dress. Ronan saw Robin's wicked grin reflected on each of their faces; even Genie's ever-pure smile had gone crooked. At the edge of the group, the rookie bounced on his heels. Ronan would trade their places if it meant he could feel Robin's energy for the first time again.
Robin chewed his lip, eyes bright with pride, and it was impossible to look away from him.
He wrapped his hand around the doorknob and pushed down his own mask: black and gold to match his suit, with two curved horns jutting from the temples. His face was hardly visible, but still Ronan fixated on the point of his chin and curve of his lips, O-shaped as he lifted the candle from the wall and blew. He didn't say another word, only twisted and pulled and bathed them in gold.
Ronan was the last to shuffle discreetly from the room. He almost didn't want to look, but the sigh Genie let out at his side coaxed his eyes upward, across the hallway and through a row of wide, gilded archways, to the ballroom.
And Ronan stared. Out at the vast wooden floor, painstakingly chalked with an elaborate floral design, and then up, up, up to a ceiling fresco, three stories high and still reaching. From the domed mural of some divine scene hung a chandelier so large it provoked fear in him, sudden and lashing, of collapse and flame and death by crystal. Mounted girandoles carved with the furious horned figure of the Royal Beast poured more light into the room, over arched windows and white walls trimmed with gold leaf, over the shining stairways to the second- and third-floor mezzanines, over the bodies that climbed them.
Bodies, so many of them, cast in gold like an aura. Ronan had sworn he would die before he walked among the likes of them, yet there he stood, fitted in their likeness, an equal for the night. He looked out at dresses and coats and jewels, at diamond-studded masks and billowing skirts and ribbon-tied ringlets, and scowled. Embroidered slippers stepped, jumped, twisted, and twirled, smudging chalk peonies and carnations beneath shallow heels.
As if looking for too long betrayed his upbringing, Ronan ripped his gaze away. His comrades gawked on, jaws slack and eyes wide, while he wondered bitterly – Whiplash tsked in his head: always so bitter, Ronnie – just how many people could fill their stomachs for the price of one pendalogue plucked from the chandelier.
If only for something else to focus on, he peeked inside the washroom once more, scanning to make sure they hadn't forgotten anything even though Robin had undoubtedly tripled-checked. All that remained was the bag, stuffed now with their old clothes and tossed onto a chair, and six black masks perched on the table.
Ronan felt inside his coat until he found what he needed. In a total of five movements and as many seconds, he cut two strips of thick wire, used the longer to wedge the shorter deep into the keyhole, and replaced the wire and pliers in his pockets. When he turned back around, the rookie was watching him instead of the scenery ahead. He reached past Ronan and tried the knob three times. When it didn't budge, he said, "Incredible."
"Child's play," Ronan corrected. It had taken longer to find what he needed in the damned coat than to jam the lock. It wasn't the most foolproof method, but it was fast and subtle, and he doubted anybody would try forcing the lock of a washroom of all places. It would do for the – he searched for a clock – hour and a half before they needed to leave.
"Is that all we have?" Robin mused after Ronan announced as much out loud. He sounded anything but hurried. "Well then, we'd better get moving. That's it. The entrance to the manor."
Five pairs of eyes followed the tilt of his head like ducklings. The set of double doors that undoubtedly led to the interior of the house was lacking in grandiosity, hardly discernible from the door Ronan had just jammed. If one thing had gone right that night, it was that the doors were down that very hallway, relatively near to their entry point and less brightly lit than the ballroom beyond. Unfortunately (and predictably), this advantage was offset by the duo of guards posted there.
"And we expect someone to let us in there?" Genie sounded much like the woeful song wafting from the orchestra. With nothing in his hands to fiddle with, he had resorted to buttoning and unbuttoning the top of his vest. He cracked a sheepish, if wobbly smile when Ronan pushed his hand down.
"Are you doubting me?" Whiplash said without turning. Genie startled and squeaked what may have been a no.
"Trust in my sister," Robin agreed.
As if that was the hard part. If any of them was to charm their way into the Van Doren home, it would be her. From what they'd gathered in a hurry that afternoon, there were nine men in the Van Doren family, all present tonight, and that didn't take the help into account. The hug of her dress, the contrast of rosy lips against pale olive skin – there was no doubt some arrogant heir or disgruntled servant or unhappily-married nobleman would fall for the juxtaposition of sharp, immoral eyes against a soft face.
Her job wasn't the issue. There were still too many holes and too many variables. There was too much that could go wrong with so much to lose–
"Trust in yourselves," Robin continued, watching Ronan like he could hear his thoughts. "Trust in me, and trust in us. Have we ever failed before?"
He said it with that conviction of his, that involuntary push in his voice. It was enough for Genie to visibly relax – he would follow that voice into war. Robin couldn't help but inspire; it was his nature. It was the reason he took up so much space, in a room and in Ronan's mind.
In the ballroom beyond, the music tapered off between songs. Robin's next words rang clearly, and Ronan got this swooping feeling in his chest, like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, bracing to jump. "This is different, but not new," he urged. "We are going to succeed, because we always do."
And Ronan believed him, because he always did.
Robin turned around, offering his arm to his sister. The rest fanned out in pairs behind them. The first notes of the next song picked up – an upbeat, daring number – as they stepped out from the shadows of the hallway.
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Song for this chapter - Royals by Lorde
back from the dead with a new story >:) buckle up kiddos, this one's a ride