A/N: "Fly Me to the Moon"—Frank Sinatra. I adore him :) I think I'm obsessed with songfics now. Anyway, reviews are great. This could be a possible one-shot, though most likely it's going to have a bunch of following chapters, if I can find the inspiration to keep it going. The ending's a little cheesy—and it feels a bit rushed :/

DISCLAIMER: I'm most definitely not Cornelia Funke, so The Thief Lord doesn't belong to me. Sad day.

(1)

Starla Gabrelovic was having a bad night. A bad night in a string of particularly bad nights.

While ransacking a house for food, cash, and anything of monetary value to sell off on an almost-black market, the occupants had unexpectedly come home. She'd barely escaped onto the balcony before they'd caught her in the act. She'd hidden on that balcony, in the small sliver of space between where the door ended and where the balustrade began, in such a cold winter night that she could see her breath. Her skin was instantly covered with goosebumps, and her entire body was shaking with chills. She'd waited breathlessly for the lights just beyond the French doors to go out, but angry voices—shouting in Italian—filled the room. From what little of the language she knew, Starla knew they were vocalizing their discoveries—they'd been robbed.

God, no—not tonight, Starla thought, pressing even closer into the corner of the balcony. What if they find me out here? She couldn't be arrested—she had her family to look after. She couldn't leave them like that. And she definitely couldn't be thrown into an orphanage again. One time had been more than enough of a lesson to tell her to be more careful.

Damn, damn, damn, Starla thought as the carabinieri showed up. She was trapped. Of course she had the option of jumping off the balcony, but Starla wasn't an idiot. She knew she couldn't jump to the ground without breaking her ankle, or at least giving it a very bad sprain.

Terrified that the carabinieri would find her, Starla briefly considered trying to climb onto the roof. She quickly realized that, even if she stood on the balustrade, she was still too short. She hit the smooth stone of the house with her fist in frustration.

When she finally heard the voices in the room begin to fade, and her breath caught. Was she safe? Was the possibility of escape—without killing herself in the process—within her reach?

Just as she started to inch towards the French doors to peek in and see if the coast was clear, when the glass door suddenly opened, coming that close to introducing her nose to the back of her skull.

She resisted the urge to shriek and/or shout obscenities at whoever had done it, and she stepped back into her corner again, covering her mouth with her fist and biting her knuckle.

The man—the boy, she quickly realized—who had stepped out onto the balcony was no older than her sixteen years. Judging by his expensive clothing, Starla knew he had to be the son of the household. Despite the fact he could easily find her and expose her, Starla took her chance to size him up. He was tall and lanky—but not bone-thin like her starved friends. He had dark hair that was particularly glossy, and olive-toned skin from what she could see.

Definitely Italian, Starla assumed. She wondered if she'd be able to slip past him or…ask for his help? She contemplated the dangers of doing just that. She figured there was a 99% chance he would rat her out to the police, but that tiny 1% was hopeful that maybe he would understand, that maybe he'd help her escape.

But was it worth the risk?

Starla had never been much of a risk taker—she only broke into houses because it was necessary. She shook every second she was in a place where she didn't belong. But she was like a mother to Sierra and Michael, the two who weren't cut out for a life like this—she had to provide for them, since nobody else would.

Starla shifted her weight from foot to foot, still trying to force herself to make a decision, when a voice inside the house barked, "Scipio!"

Starla's breath caught as the boy turned around in response, and he saw her, in the shadows and clutching a bag full of things that didn't belong to her—so clearly the culprit of the burglary.

If he was shocked to see her there, it didn't show in his expression. His eyes lingered on her for only a moment before returning to the man who had called him inside.

The boy answered in fluent Italian, sounding sheepish, and the voice barked again.

Starla struggled to keep up with the language, trying to translate it in her head. The man inside had said something along the lines of, "You'll catch your death outside in that cold," and his son had replied, "I'll be inside in a moment." Or so she thought. Starla wasn't quite sure; Italian was something she still struggled with, and they spoke so quickly she couldn't keep up.

She held her breath, waiting until she heard heavy footsteps fade away.

The boy glanced back at her, silent and with questions in his eyes.

Starla inched out from behind the glass door, but didn't move any closer.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, averting her eyes to the ground, feeling her face redden with humiliation. She realized she'd said it in English, and quickly amended, "Spiacente."

She was shocked when the boy answered in English. "You're not from around here, are you?" he asked so quietly Starla could have missed it.

She looked up, biting on her bottom lip as she so often did when her heart raced in her chest.

"No."

"You're American," he assumed.

"Yes," Starla answered, shifting her weight again. "I shouldn't have come here," she blurted, overcome with a ridiculous amount of guilt. "I'm so sorry." She shoved her bag into his arms. "I deserve to be turned into the carabinieri."

She blinked down at her feet, clad in worn-and-torn sneakers, ashamed of herself for stealing and for being stupid enough to be caught.

The boy suddenly handed the bag back to her, folding her fingers around it. The skin-on-skin contact with a stranger made her jump. "You need this more than I do," he said, glancing at the French doors to make sure his father wasn't anywhere near the balcony. "I understand."

Starla brushed her bangs from her eyes, looking at him in shock. She felt it was too good to be true. "Do you really?"

The boy had a gorgeous smile. "You have no idea."

Starla's cheeks heated up again, but this time it didn't have anything to do with humiliation.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "I'll leave as soon as I can." She looked over the balustrade in distaste, not looking forward to it.

"Don't be stupid; you'll kill yourself if you leave that way." The boy caught her by the elbow. "You'll just have to wait. I'll hide you until everyone's asleep."

Starla almost felt herself swelling with gratefulness, but she was still in a state of disbelief. Why would this boy, this rich boy who had everything, possibly help her, the poor girl who had nothing?

"Wait here." The boy went through the doors and into the study that Starla had been wandering through when the family had come home. He went to the large double doors, then peered out into the hallway. Starla waited breathlessly, still nibbling on her lip, until he turned gave her a follow-me gesture.

Starla tentatively left the balcony, easing the glass doors shut behind her. She walked on her toes across the shiny marble floor of the study, silent from much practice of avoiding making any kind noise in an unfamiliar house. She hesitantly took the boy's outstretched hand, then let him lead her to a supposedly safe place.

She felt so exposed in the huge corridor, and she was nearly hyperventilating from the threat of being discovered.

Once again making sure that the coast was clear, the boy opened a single door to a darkened bedroom.

He shut the door behind them, and Starla whispered, "Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?"

"I can tell by the way you're so terrified to be here that you're not doing this for yourself." His dark eyes twinkled from the sparse amount of moonlight that seeped in through the window. "You're doing this to help somebody else."

Starla looked at the ground again. "I take care of my friends. We don't have anyone else but each other. We do what we can to get by."

"Not many people would do this."

"They're my family," Starla answered, looking up. "I'd do anything for them."

The boy nodded.

"I'm so sorry," she said again.

"Stop apologizing. Don't be sorry unless you get caught. You're not sorry to be keeping your friends alive, are you?"

Startled by his sudden statement, Starla shook her head.

She bit her lip again as he asked her, "What's your name?"

"I don't know if I should tell you."

The boy sighed. "If you're still convinced I'm going to turn you in, you can convince yourself otherwise. I'm not going to say anything to anyone about you." He smiled, then held out his hand. "I'm Scipio."

Starla looked at him warily, but shifted the bag to her other hand so she could slip her hand into his. "Starla."

"That's unique."

"Former hippie parents." Starla blushed again. "Scipio's not exactly a name you hear on the street everyday either."

He smiled quickly, but then it faded. "What happened to them? Your parents? Something had to have happened to make you leave America."

"I'm not obligated to tell you that," she said. She had to draw the line somewhere. He may have saved her from a terrible fate, but that didn't give this Scipio an all-access pass to her life story. She didn't like thinking about her parents anyway.

Starla swallowed against the lump in her throat as Scipio stared her down with those dark, dark eyes. He finally shrugged. "I guess you're not."

"How long will I have to wait do you think?" she asked hesitantly.

"Every day of their lives is like clockwork—crisis or not, I'm sure the lights will all be out by eleven."

Starla spotted a digital clock beside the bed and saw it wasn't even ten.

"That's a long time," she murmured anxiously, wringing her hands. She set the heavy bag down on the floor and sat on the edge of his bed. "My friends will worry. They always do."

Scipio came and sat beside her, with little space between them. "If you won't tell me about your parents, will you at least tell me about your friends?"

"What makes them so interesting?" Starla picked at a hangnail on her thumb.

"We need something to talk about to pass the time, right?"

Her lips lifted into a smile without her telling them to. "I suppose we do." She sighed, then found herself watching the clock again. She told him about them all—Jack, Sebastian, Sierra, and Michael, though she tried to reserve some of their privacy. She knew that Sierra, especially, wouldn't want a stranger knowing a single thing about her. She eventually found herself telling him about the small café where she worked part-time as a waitress, about how Jack would play his guitar at night and Starla would sing little Michael to sleep with lullabies. She told him about what her home in Jersey had been like before she left it behind her. He had her talking about nothing and bearing the slightest bit of her soul for hours.

"They're going to be so angry with me," she said, interrupting herself when she caught sight of the midnight time. Scipio had promised her the lights would be out by now, but gold was still seeping in through under the door.

"I'm sure, given the circumstances, they'll cut you some slack." Scipio leaned back against the pillow, then suddenly said, "Look."

The light that leaked from underneath the door had disappeared, and Starla listened intently, hearing sleepy voices walking down the corridor. She heard a door down the hallway shut.

They waited several minutes to be sure that the house would be experiencing no more activity for the night.

Scipio, though, checked the hallway once again before taking Starla's hand again and leading her through the dark, chilly house. Their footsteps seemed so loud on the marble floors, but the house was huge and cave-like; Starla knew that just had to be the way the sounds echoed.

They reached the huge front door—a massive rectangle of wood that towered over the both of them—and Scipio unlocked it and stepped out into the cold.

Starla breathed the icy winter air into her lungs, relieved to be outside again, beside a glittering canal that reflected the silvery moon. A smile fell upon her lips, and she turned to Scipio, suddenly wishing she didn't have to leave.

"How can I ever thank you?" she asked. "I owe you, so much."

He grinned. "You don't owe me anything, Starla."

"No. Don't do that. You're not getting rid of that debt because you don't think it's necessary. It is. You have to want something." She suddenly realized there was a hole in her logic. Scipio lived in this huge house, with priceless items all around him, and his parents were probably so rich they could buy him anything he wanted. What could he possibly want from her?

What a stupid thing to say. She mentally slapped herself.

When he remained silent, Starla felt her cheeks burn again. "I should go," she said, picking up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. "Thank—"

Scipio suddenly caught her hand again, lacing his fingers through hers.

"Don't disappear," he said, startling her. "Don't disappear like you're from a dream."

Starla didn't know what to say.

"I want to see you again," he said, sounding serious.

Her breath caught, her heart raced, and she bit her lip.

She felt oddly like she was suddenly trapped in a romance novel—right in the beginning, where the characters who were destined to become lovers just met, with the entire story laid out in front of them.

She didn't want to throw this chance away like she so often did.

"Il gatto ballante," she said, butchering the music of the name with her awful American accent. "The Dancing Cat. Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Ask for Monica."

"Why?"

"That's me. Alias." She smiled.

Scipio grinned, then slowly released her hand. The spaces between Starla's fingers felt empty.

"I'll be seeing you," Scipio said, unknowingly quoting one of Starla's favorite songs.

He was almost back inside before she suddenly realized she didn't want him to leave yet.

"Scipio!" she said, almost too loudly.

He stopped and turned, and Starla was overwhelmed by the urge to hug him. She threw her arms around his neck, in a way much different than when she hugged Jack or Sebastian.

His arms curved around her waist in response, and Starla wondered why it felt like they fit so perfectly together.

"Thank you," she said for maybe the thousandth time that night. "Grazie," she threw in, hoping she sounded cute and not stupid.

He laughed a little, and Starla hoped it wasn't because she'd crossed a line and made him uncomfortable.

"You're welcome."

Starla stepped back the tiniest bit, and wished she could look at his eyes long enough that she could still see them even when he wasn't anywhere near her. She wanted to kiss him.

Don't notice the line until you've already crossed it, Starla's conscience scolded her.

She let go and stepped back even further.

"I'll be seeing you," she said, repeating his words back to him.

Starla didn't want to leave, but it was well past midnight now. She had to get home.

She turned and walked away, wishing she didn't have to, but knowing she couldn't afford to stay.

She glanced back over her shoulder once and saw those dark eyes watching her until she left the Fondamenta Bollani.

As she walked home, Starla Gabrelovic realized that her bad night had really turned around.