The sun rose in the morning and filtered through the bent shutters of the loft, casting slanted rays of golden light over the chaos of empty mugs, biscuit crumbs, and one very hungover parrot draped dramatically over a lampshade.
Thistle, however, was already pacing.
"We can't march into the city markets with Lady Gildore's pilfered diamonds dangling from our ears like Christmas ornaments," she declared, her voice edged with urgency—and just the right dash of theatrical flair. "We require disguises. Excellent ones. Untraceable. Unforgettable. Absurd, if necessary."
Pips sat up, eyes bleary but twinkling. "Absurd is our forte."
Nibs nodded solemnly, already producing a frayed box labeled:"Emergency Costumes – Do Not Open Unless Absolutely Up To No Good."
Out of the box came a glorious explosion of chaos: fake mustaches, powdered wigs, floppy hats, monocles, extravagant false beards, opera masks, and a very suspect feather boa that had seen one too many dramatic exits.
Sir Pecks-a-Lot tumbled from the lampshade with a pained squawk and landed in a heap on the table. "I promise on my life, if someone bonnets me again, I will shriek."
Thistle, chuckling like a fox in a henhouse with keys to the wine cellar, leaned forward. "We'll be unrecognizable, Pecks. You'll be a new bird. A legend. A feathered myth."
He narrowed one bloodshot eye at her. "You always say that before shoving me into a crumpled nightmare."
Operation: Jewel Drop
Hours later, four dramatically altered beings stood before the broken mirror in the corner of the loft.
Thistle was now Madame Voltaire de Cabbage, an aristocratic widow with powdered cheeks, a severe widow's peak wig, and a dagger-shaped beauty mark drawn just above her lip. Her purple velvet cloak, fox-fur lined and unnecessarily swishy, flared with every step she took.
Pips had become Lord Picklewhistle the Third, a permanently scowling noble with a monocle, an oversized cravat that looked like it might strangle him at any moment, and an exaggerated limp that changed legs every few steps.
Nibs had gone entirely feral with creativity, disguising himself as a wandering merchant woman from the far north, with clanking bracelets, a silver-toothed grin, and at least three shawls that growled when moved.
But the pièce de résistance?
Sir Pecks-a-Lot.
The parrot perched on Thistle's shoulder, dressed in a miniature velvet doublet trimmed with gold braid, an itty-bitty tricorn hat cocked at a rakish angle, and—his greatest protest yet—a fake mustache glued to his beak with honey and suffering.
"I look like a royal idiot," he growled, voice gravelly.
"Pithius thinks you are a silent bird of international intrigue," Thistle cooed. "You are now Count Plumefeather von Squawk, my esteemed foreign interpreter and bodyguard."
"If anyone calls me Plumefeather, I will bite them."
"That's the idea," she said cheerfully, adjusting his tiny hat.
The Market Scheme
The group made their way to the great trading district of the capital, gliding through the crowds like four eccentrics who had taken a wrong turn on their way to a haunted opera.
They slipped into a discreet alley where a notoriously discreet gem appraiser conducted business with the rich, the dangerous, and the questionably dressed.
Madame Voltaire swept forward like fallen nobility with debts and daggers.
"I bear gifts," she said smoothly, holding out a silk-wrapped bundle of "family heirlooms."
The appraiser, a sharp-eyed man with fingers like spider legs, looked them up and down.
"Interesting companions, madame."
"Bodyguards. Healers. My cousin from the tundra," she said, waving vaguely at Nibs, who offered a toothy grin and a bracelet rattle of doom. "And this," she added, gesturing toward Sir Pecks-a-Lot, "is Count von Squawk. Do not offend his lineage. He is fluent in seventeen Wyrmbird dialects and allegedly has a dagger in each feather."
Sir Pecks-a-Lot let out a deep, authoritative squawk. "I do weddings, too."
It was apparently enough.
The gems were discreetly inspected, haggled over, and sold off piece by piece to various well-dressed fools, each utterly unaware they'd just purchased the scandal of the season.
When night fell, the team emerged into the cool evening air, their satchels heavy and their identities still miraculously intact.
Thistle turned to the others, wind tugging at her cloak, and said, breathless with glee, "We did it. Not thieves—legends."
Sir Pecks-a-Lot, still in costume, gave a long, world-weary sigh. "Next time… pants. Velvet pants. With dignity."