The tailor made no effort to hide his frustration as he inserted pins into the various bits of fabric wrapped around Satchel’s body.

  “Hold still, please,” the man said for perhaps the twelfth time through the pins held by his lips.

  The young thief had never been fitted for clothes before and kept trying to look at what the tailor was doing.

  “Sorry,” said Satchel.

  “Stand still for a little bit longer. It will be over sooner, I promise.”

  Satchel sighed. This wasn’t his idea of a way to spend a morning.

  His eyes drifted to the paintings that hung in his room. The one above his bed showed a lovely little meadow with bright flowers and a single tree in the middle of the field. Another was of a large sailing ship crashing through a wave, its cream-colored sails fully taught in the wind. One painting had caught his attention the night before when Orvis had first shown him the room. Satchel kept glancing back at it. It was of a young boy, about his age, with black hair and a light green cloak covering part of his body. Where the cloak did not cover, a dark brown undershirt showed. Though the skill employed was nowhere near that of the other two, this one seemed more personal, more intimate. The name on the plate of the painting read, "Philip."

  He asked Orvis about it, but the butler replied, “Master has instructed me not to speak of it.”

  Satchel decided not to push the matter, yet his mind kept flitting back to it, and he did not know why.

  The tailor finished taking Satchel’s measurements and let him go, much to his and the tailor’s relief. The young thief left his room and decided to explore. He had wanted to wander around the manor after breakfast, but the tailor and seamstress had arrived early.

  As he strolled down the halls, he let his eyes roam, soaking in every detail. Satchel secretly hoped to find a hidden passageway that led to an underground hideout of some kind. He had heard tales of grand manors like this one from other pickpockets and thieves in Ire and was sure Basco had one somewhere.

  Quite unexpectedly, he found himself standing outside Addie’s door. From the other side, he could hear women talking. She was still not done with her fitting.

  Curiosity overtook Satchel, and he dared a peek through the keyhole. Through it, he could see the back of Addie’s fiery orange hair, a hanging mess of curls. The seamstress, a round, rosy-cheeked woman, fussed with a piece of material near the girl’s lower back.

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  Suddenly, Addie looked at the door and gave it a fierce glare. She started toward the door. Satchel gasped and took off down the hall, turning a corner just as Addie emerged from her room, fuming. She stood there for a moment and then closed the door with a huff.

  Well, I won’t try that again, thought Satchel.

  He crept slowly along the wall to make sure Addie hadn’t come looking for him.

  His renewed search for a hidden passage took him to other guest rooms, the parlor, a small library, several closets, and the main hall. He also tried the kitchen, but he wasn’t in there for very long because the cooks arrived to begin their preparations for the evening and chased him away.

  Disappointed, Satchel started looking for Basco to get the rest of the story about Do’Grum. The study seemed likely. The door was locked, so Satchel picked the lock with a hairpin he had procured from one of the rooms. However, it was empty.

  He was about to leave when a stack of Basco’s old maps caught his eye. Having nothing better to do, he began unfurling each one. Most were rather boring, but one grabbed his attention.

  It was a large map and, he wagered, very old. A whole realm spread out before him as he unrolled the parchment. He used several books as weights to hold down the edges so that he could get a good view of the whole thing. The writing on it was curious, completely different from any he had seen before.

  Unlike other inhabitants of Beggar’s Corner, Satchel knew how to read. Jarek believed a good thief is a smart thief. He drilled his protégé with reading comprehension exercises daily.

  The writing on the map was difficult to discern, but after a few minutes, he grasped some common elements. A set of numbers in the lower right-hand corner of the map read, “67JF-12.” The writing next to it looked to be the cartographer’s name. The first part was faded, but he could make out the last name: “Nashin.” Along the nearby border, another name had been written: Erasmus Inkwell. Below that name, a strange symbol had been drawn. The symbol was smudged, but he could just make out the edges of a gear.

  Handwritten notes, marks, and drawings littered the rest of the map. One sketch, in particular, located in the middle next to a city called Makaran, caught Satchel’s eye. The sketch was of a stringed instrument with an eye in the middle of it. As he reached out to touch the drawing, a haunting tune began playing in his head. Where had he heard that? Using his finger, Satchel began to trace the path made by a hatched line that led away from the instrument out to another part of the map.

  He felt as though this was important, like he was on the verge of a great realization. Before he got very far the door to the study opened and in stepped Orvis.

  “What are you doing?” demanded the butler as he marched up to the table.

  Satchel backed away and stammered, “Sorry, I was just looking.”

  “How did you even—no one is allowed in here unless invited by the master. Turn out your pockets this instant.” After Satchel had done so, Orvis regarded him with a suspicious eye. He let out a short breath. “You are a guest in this house. I kindly ask that you remember that.” Orvis rolled up the map and replaced it on the shelf. “Lady Montague is here for your lessons. Do not make her wait any longer than necessary.”

  Satchel gave the map one last glance before Orvis shooed him out of the study.