The moon rode high in the sky, bathing the alleyway where the night's trouble had been made in a silver light. But within the warm, lamp-lit clutter of the loft Thistle used as her hideaway, it was hot, frenzied, and replete with the unmistakable aroma of victory—and a dash too much wine.
Thistle had never been the type to wallow in the glory of her triumphs for long. There was always another theft, another getaway, another mission impossible to plot. But tonight, for the first time in a very long time, she took a moment to indulge in sheer, unadulterated pleasure.
"To the greatest thieves this side of the kingdom!" she bellowed, raising her mug of spiced cider high into the air.
Pips and Nibs, her young and devoted cohorts, clinked their own mugs together with a chorus of over-the-top cheers, their faces aglow with excitement.
"To Thistle!" Pips declared, his voice cracking with excitement. "I knew you had it in you. I mean, shoplifting from Lady Gildore's party? That was pure genius."
Nibs nodded enthusiastically, his messy mop of hair bouncing up and down with every bob. "A master stroke! Who knew you could charm the jewels off her neck and not even break a sweat?"
Thistle swallowed a big gulp of her cider, relishing the heat spreading in her chest. "Well, my dear Pips, Nibs—did you notice the expression on Inspector Elias's face? He came close to catching me, but I flipped the tables like a pro." She grinned at them. "It's all about the drama, my friends. The dance, the tension—it keeps them on their toes."
"But you had a close call there, didn't you?" Nibs asked, eyes wide with excitement. "He was in your face, giving you the look, like—like—"
"Like he was about to arrest me on the spot?" Thistle laughed, spinning her mug in her hands. "Oh, believe me, I saw it in his eyes. He's onto me, but it's going to take more than a waltz to catch a lady like myself."
The two boys exchanged a glance, their faces full of admiration. "You sure know how to handle him," Pips said, shaking his head in awe.
Thistle chuckled, leaning back in her chair. "I've got the charm of a raccoon in a bowler, remember?" she said with mock modesty, setting her mug down with a decisive clink.
"And don't forget the strut of a cat on a hot tin roof," Nibs said, always the imp.
"And the cunning of a fox who's mastered rhyming speech," Pips contributed, his smile wicked.
"Right!" Thistle exclaimed, bringing her mug up again. "And now, gentlemen, the spoils are ours."
From the other side of the room, there was a deafening squawk, followed by a flapping of wings. Sitting on an old wooden chair, squawking indignantly, was their partner-in-crime: a brightly colored parrot named Sir Pecks-a-Lot. His feathers were a patchwork of bright reds and greens, and his sharp beak was the perfect complement to his witty, sometimes rude, comments.
"Don't forget about me!" Sir Pecks-a-Lot squawked, puffing out his chest theatrically. "I flew around the mansion, squawking all the secrets in the air like a pro gossip! You'd be nowhere if it weren't for me!"
Thistle smiled and cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, Sir Pecks-a-Lot, we know you're the brains of this outfit. Without your squawking and flying, who would have distracted the guests long enough for us to pull off our big heist?"
Sir Pecks-a-Lot blew up even larger, obviously smug. "Precisely! I have the looks, the talent, and the charisma! And perfect timing, for good measure! If I hadn't squawled at Lady Gildore's poodle, we'd still be standing in that ballroom, making a dash for our lives!"
"You're the true star of the show," Pips declared, chuckling and throwing a cracker at the parrot.
Sir Pecks-a-Lot swooped in and snatched it from the air with a flourish, snapping it open with a smug crunch of his beak. "I accept your compliments, my dear Pips. It's hard work being this fabulous."
Thistle and the boys shared a glance, and then all three dissolved into laughter, the sound ringing through the loft. The stresses of the heist were already beginning to dissipate, replaced by the pleasure of success—and the effortless camaraderie they enjoyed.
Later, after the cider was consumed and the first thrill of their triumph began to subside, the boys produced a tiny wooden box. It was nondescript—a loaf of bread size—but inside it, amidst folds of gentle velvet, were the jewels. Lady Gildore's fine gems shone in the soft light, emitting an almost fairy-like beauty.
"See them," Thistle said, her tone one of admiration and satisfaction. "These aren't mere trinkets. They're the prize for my years of brilliance. Years of scheming, of refining every little trick. These are mine."
Pips and Nibs moved forward, their eyes wide with awe. "They're lovely," Nibs breathed, touching one of the larger stones softly.
Thistle grinned. "They are. And the best part? They're ours to play with now. We can sell them, buy our freedom, and live to steal another day."
Sir Pecks-a-Lot, who had been observing proceedings with great interest, let out a high-pitched squawk. "Don't forget the best bit!" he shrieked, flapping wings for emphasis. "We have a party! I need more crackers. And possibly some olives. Possibly a bath, too, I don't know. I'm just saying."
Thistle chuckled, standing up with a flourish. "Okay, okay! Sir Pecks-a-Lot is right. We have a victory party."
The party went long into the night. Music flooded the loft as they danced, laughed, and celebrated their success. Pips and Nibs competed to top Sir Pecks-a-Lot's squawks with their most perfect bird noises, while Thistle regaled them with the highlights of the heist in detail. Sir Pecks-a-Lot naturally accepted all credit for their victory—though possibly stretching a word or two.
And as the evening went on, they sat together around the little wooden box, still chuckling and scheming the next big haul. Because one thing was sure: Thistle was never content. She was always seeking the next adventure, the next robbery, the next rush.
But for tonight, the jewels shining before them were sufficient.
For tonight, they had triumphed.