Damn it Bestheda, why'd you have to put the orphanage in the same city as the Thieves' Guild? :I I couldn't help it. My muse got rolling and now...

"What're you doing in there, lass?"

A strong hand gripped her thin wrist, and Agnes winced. It didn't hurt, but she hated being touched. She hated being held even more. "Let me go."

"I don't think so."

She growled lowly, trying not to draw attention to herself. If she got caught, Grelod would know for sure where she was and what she was doing. It was more important that the old hag didn't know. She could deal with the discomfort if it kept her safe from that old crone.

"You're one of Grelod's urchins aren't you?"

Agnes scowled – she was, but she hated it. "So?"

"I won't tell a guard," he offered, "But how'd you like to make some gold?"

Agnes had no idea what she would do if she had any money. She figured, though, a pocket full of septims would get her a few snacks more than Constance would sneak them. A small smile flitted across her face before she forced a stern frown. "Alright."

The man explained that if she could slip a few gems from Madesi's satchel, he'd pay her for them. She asked why – Madesi seemed nice. He mentioned the work that went into his pieces – little trinkets that Agnes would never have. In the end, she didn't even understand the answer, but Madesi would live, and his work wouldn't suffer for it. Only come to a pause. She accepted it.

It wasn't so hard to sneak past Madesi. He was on his way out and looking forward to going to rest. Agnes wished she could say the same. Normally, he gave her what she assumed was a fond smile and then a light tap on the head, along with the sound advice that she should return to Grelod soon. Today he didn't even see her.

The lock was simple enough that she could break into his stand. From the shadows, it was hard to tell what she was grabbing. She felt chains and something hard and clinking coins – she grabbed a fistful before picking at the stones. She didn't know what she picked up, but she snuck back behind the tavern to meet the red-haired Nord.

"Hello there Lass," he greeted casually.

"I got 'em."

"Keep your voice down, would you? I can see them."

Agnes raised a brow, convinced that he was either lying or had the eyes of a cat. And yet, he seemed pleased by the collection, and praised her.

"This is good work, Lass. Not one person saw you, did they now."

It wasn't a question. They hadn't.

"I don't suppose you'd want to do this again?"

"You said you'd pay me," Agnes reminded him, frowning,

The older Nord smiled. "All business are we? Here," he handed her a small pouch of coins, about the size of his own fist. It was more money than Agnes had ever seen. "Now, about future business?"

She was too busy staring at her prize – she would have to find some place to stash it in case Grelod found it. She could hear him, but it was too overwhelming for her to listen. She ran over all of the places she could hide it. There was her bed – too risky – and her chest – to obvious.

"Are you alright?"

"I—yes."

"If you need some time—"

"I do. I just don't have anywhere to—"

"Do you know where the Ratway is?"

Agnes did. She had hidden down there once. She had meant to escape from Grelod, but she had only gotten to a dark, moldy stairwell before a pair of guards caught her arm. She nodded, saving her breath.

"Get to the end of that tunnel – there's a place called the Ragged Flagon. If you can get down there, we can discuss your future."

She smiled faintly, and then turned to go back to Honorhall. She hated it there, but if Grelod didn't see her in her bed, the gates of Oblivion would be nothing by comparison. The man didn't question it, which was good.

It wasn't until she reached the orphanage door that she realized she still didn't know his name.


When the girl came down to the Flagon, it was two weeks later and she was sporting a black eye and a bandaged wrist. He couldn't tell if she'd received those injuries before or after she entered the Ratway, but she wasn't limping or grimacing, and she was crouched so well he doubted she'd have been spotted.

"What did I tell you?" Brynjolf asked Delvin, smirking. He had, however, expected Delvin to be right after the first week.

The little girl approached, still crouched although she'd been spotted, clutching a steak knife to her chest. Dirge stepped in front of her to block her path, and Brynjolf stepped in front of Dirge to wave him off.

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't show up," Brynjolf said with a smile.

"Can't be worse than the old crone," she muttered.

He immediately assumed that the old woman had found whatever money Agnes had collected, and didn't bother asking questions. The guild was in no good shape, but neither was she. The Flagon was falling apart and she didn't seem to notice. Or care.

"What do I have to do?" she asked.

Brynjolf wasn't going to question much about her. He'd seen her work, and for an urchin she had talent. He knew he couldn't let her do anything diplomatic, just snatch and go jobs. Quick things. Simple things. But those still brought money into the guild. Maybe, he thought, she'd be a good con artist. But Riften wasn't the place for that.

"How much of a mess are you in?"

"I—what makes you think…" She glared at him, but a firm stare made her cave. They'd have to work on that. "Grelod found my stash and she locked me up."

He'd never been inside the orphanage, and frankly he didn't want to. He had no idea what she meant by "locked up." Maybe confined in her room.

"I thought she was gonna kill me," she laughed breathily. "She probably will if she catches me again."

Just as he thought, Riften wasn't a safe place for her to work. If they could make her look a little less pathetic, namely to Maven, then she could be an asset. Until then, someone would have to compensate, and Brynjolf knew it would be him.

"Follow me," he said, leading her through the Flagon. "I'll show you what we're about."

Agnes knew they weren't in any sort of luxury the second she entered the cistern, but it was nicer than the orphanage still – and for one reason: Grelod wasn't there. She saw an elven archer, shooting arrows into targets, a pair of hooded men conversing at the table over dusty bottles of mead. A woman resting in her bed, flipping a coin over her fingers. A man leaning over a desk, glancing up from his work with a scowl. He stood, and approached the center, where light pooled.

"Brynjolf, what are you thinking?"

The Nord frowned. "Now that's hardly fair – you haven't seen her work."

"Getting a kid from the orphanage?" the Breton scoffed. "Risky bet there, Brynjolf."

Agnes was quiet, and curious. The man was like Grelod in a way, angry and gruff, but Brynjolf was smiling as though it were normal, and not at all dangerous, for the Breton to get so angry so quickly.

"Are you still going to keep her?"

"I don't see why not," Brynjolf replied with a casual shrug.

"What, now you're adopting me?" she quipped, smirking herself.

The dark-haired man glared at her, and then at Brynjolf. "Might as well be. If this doesn't pay—"

"It will," he said. "You have my word."

The man left, back to his desk, where he glowered at some documents. Agnes looked to Brynjolf, cocking her head and pursing her lips in confusion. "Who's he?"

"Mercer Frey, our Guildmaster."

Agnes scowled. "He acts like Grelod."

"Aye?"

"What do I have to do?"

"Well first you're going to fix up your wrist and learn how to hold a knife," Brynjolf said, plucking the steak knife from her hand. At first she resisted, but he was stronger than her and it was a short-lived tug-of-war. "Then I'm going to see if you have the first idea how to fight before sending you out there."

"You didn't care last time," Agnes muttered.

"Last time you'd have been booted to the orphanage," Brynjolf warned. "And that could still happen, and if It does we're not taking you back. If you get caught elsewhere, I can't say. Most people won't take kindly to you taking their things."

"Does everyone have to—"

"No," he answered quickly. "But they can."

Agnes frowned – it was going to be rough, at least for a little while. Lurking had become something of a pastime for her, and she was certain that she would get bored of it in the same environment with the same people every day.

Brynjolf frowned and moved to rest a hand on her shoulder, but she ducked away, just out of reach. Luckily for her, he had nothing to say, instead leaving for the Flagon.


Mercer could see her sneaking around the Flagon. She made several rounds in an hour, just before she settled down in her bed to check up on her wrist. He'd seen it – it was absolutely mangled. That it wasn't infected was a miracle. It irritated him when she settled at the table, staring blankly at the book of shadowmarks. One day, when he passed by, he snatched the book out of her hands and carved the guild symbol on the table.

"Well?"

She stared at it, furrowing her brow. Her jaw was clenched – he could tell. She was angry. And she had no idea what the mark he'd just carved even was. But he let her squirm for a little longer, trying to figure what symbol he'd just carved.

"It's the guild symbol," she muttered uncertainly.

He scowled, and tossed the book back at her. Maybe she could read.


Agnes didn't like the way that Mercer glared at her while she flipped through the book. She had no idea what it said, and instead compensated by remembering the kinds of places where those symbols had been. Taverns and shops usually had the circled square with lines crossed through. Homes had a similar mark but without the lines – manors sometimes had a mark like the guild symbol.

One evening, Mercer approached her and yanked the book from her hands. He glared at it, at her, and then handed it back to her. "Read this."

"That's the loot mark—"

" I don't care what mark it is," Mercer snapped. "Read it."

Agnes clenched her jaw. She really had no idea what the book said. She had never learned how to read. She scowled, and she stared at the page. She stared at it for quite some time, waiting for Mercer to get bored and leave. He didn't.

"Read it."

Agnes frowned. She couldn't. She had no idea what to say, but Mercer wasn't budging, and she had a feeling that he just wanted her to confess.

"I can't read."

Mercer smirked, as though he'd known all along and the real task was getting her to admit it. But his smile faded quickly, and once again he was scowling. "Stop wasting our time. Go ask Brynjolf."


"Brynjolf?"

The voice was small, and it was easy to tell who it was. No one else in the cistern had such a squeak of a voice. It was Agnes, for certain, and when Brynjolf looked to her, he raised a brow. She looked as though she'd done something wrong. Other than stealing, of course, she seemed not to care about larceny.

"Um…Mercer…told me to ask you—"

"Just spit it out, Lass," he said, amused.

"I can't read."

Brynjolf frowned. "What?" She was quiet, looking away and shrugging. From what Brynjolf had seen, she was clever. It had never occurred to him that she may not know how to read, or write. He hadn't really thought of her as being a child, but clearly he was wrong.

"I don't know how to read."

He snorted. "Can't you learn?"

"I tried," she said. "The one with all the pictures – I tried using that one. But I couldn't read it."

"Shadowmarks?"

She nodded, and then it was quiet. Brynjolf hadn't thought that he'd have to teach her how to read. He was training her, not raising her. But then, he supposed, a little of both would be done no matter what. He sighed. "Sit down then."


She was clever. A few pages of each book lying around the cistern and she could read at a well-enough level to decipher simple books and notes. She was clever enough to copy down the symbols and words she needed to form notes of her own. He wasn't worried that she wouldn't be able to read – now he was worried that she would try to read a little too much. Stopping mid-heist to read a book wouldn't help her, so he was sure to warn her to just bring her things back to the cistern.

"Brynjolf?" she asked. "How much longer do I have to practice this stuff?"

Until he could figure out where to send her. He didn't say it, instead ignoring her briefly. But she was insistent, staring him down and opening her mouth when she determined that he wouldn't answer. "When you prove you're not going to get yourself killed."

To Brynjolf's mind, it was a satisfactory answer. She didn't seem to think so, petulantly insisting that she wouldn't. It was almost endearing. Almost. "Lass, if you really want to get out then leave. Just don't expect us to help you out if you get caught."

That shut her up. She finished reading, and then excused herself to the Cistern.

"Bryn, why'd you even bring 'er down 'ere in the first place?"

Brynjolf huffed. "Caught her trying to pickpocket me."

"You caught her—"

Brynjolf laughed it off. "Stranger things have happened."


The air was crisp and cool. It was the kind of night that Agnes liked to sneak out on. The kind where people were too preoccupied with their beds to check for the little girl outside their window, fantasizing about what home was like. Now she didn't quite have to fantasize. She had known, living with Grelod, that she may never see home. She still knew.

At least she knew what it was like to have a bed of your own.

She wondered if Brynjolf or Mercer had seen her getting out. They seemed to be the only two who ever spotted her – well, them and Delvin. Vex, if she noticed, had never made mention.

Idly she fantasized about slipping through a crack in Riften's walls, escaping the town entirely. But she had no idea where she would go if she left. Instead, she sat in the tomb concealing the Cistern's other entrance, holding a book she had never been able to read before, as well as the note concealed in it. It was her only possession – the one thing she'd always kept hidden from Grelod no matter what. Today, she was confident that she could read it, but fear kept her arms tightly wrapped around the book, leaving the note inaccessible.


When Mercer passed through the Cistern, he took note of everything. Vipir boasting, Rune rolling his eyes. Agnes sitting quietly on her bed with a book in her hands. Either she was still pretending to read, or she was a quick learner, and Mercer was leaning towards the former.

Once again, he reached out and grabbed the book, but she held it more tightly. "Let go!" she snapped. "This is mine!"

Mercer scoffed. More like the words of a victim than the words of a thief. He pulled it anyways and held it above her head, just high enough that she couldn't reach it. "Really? I had some doubts."

"That's not funny," she snapped. She'd clenched her fists and stood on top of the bed, but she didn't reach for it. She probably knew how that game went – she jumped, he stepped away. Rinse and repeat.

"Mercer," Rune called. He stepped forward and crossed his arms. "Just give it back. We don't steal from guild members – wasn't that one of the first rules you beat into everyone?"

Mercer scowled, but nevertheless he tossed the book back at Agnes. "She's hardly a member," he recalled, smirking as she frowned. "Fine. Book's not worth a septim anyway."

As he made his rounds, his eyes drifted back to Agnes, struggling to read the book. Maybe, he thought, she had picked up just enough. He'd have to see for himself some day. Brynjolf had called her clever, but Mercer didn't see it.


The book: Chance's Folly. Agnes had taken a full twenty minutes to decipher the second word, though she understood what it meant. The story was just a little disturbing, and she had trouble forcing herself to sleep after reading. But it wasn't the story that really interested her. It was the note on the cover. It was smudged now that Mercer's gloves had gotten onto it – they were covered in new ink, and now Agnes could barely decipher it.

She murmured the letters under her breath, barely understanding what they meant. Eventually she was able to form a butchered phrase: "C'est la poule qui chante qui a fait l'œuf."

There were more just like it, but she couldn't muster the patience to read them.

She didn't understand it. She needed a Breton. Mercer was a Breton, but she wasn't going to ask him. She didn't like him at all. He bullied her too much. Brynjolf was much nicer, but Agnes doubted he would know what it meant. Rune was nice too, but he was the one who told her that a Breton would understand.

So she was reduced to those who kept themselves contained in the Flagon. Delvin was cryptic to Agnes, but he would have to do.

She crouched by the false cabinet, waiting for Delvin to spot her. She shifted forward, inching her way as close as she could. Her goal was to get almost an arm's length from the chair, and just when she had nearly been able to reach out and touch it, Delvin turned his head around. "Bryn's in the market."

"I'm not looking for Brynjolf," she said. She stood upright, and scratched the back of her neck.

"Well?"

"Um…you're a Breton…right?"

"Last I checked," he replied, amused.

She held her copy of the note in her hand, right on top of the book. When she glanced up to Delvin, he looked bored, maybe a little impatient. But he wasn't saying anything. "I was reading this…um…there's a note…I don't know what it means. Could you—"

"Do I get paid?"

Agnes scowled. "When I have something to pay you with."

Delvin grinned in a way that made Agnes realize that he had been joking. "I'll hold you to it," he laughed. She groaned. "Give it here."

"C'est la poule qui chante qui a fait l'œuf."

"What's that mean?"

"It's the hen that sings who laid the egg."

"That's stupid," Agnes said immediately. "Hens don't sing. They squawk."

Delvin shrugged, handing her back the note. "Why'd you want to know then?"

Agnes frowned. She didn't really want to tell him. It wasn't any of his business why she wanted to know – she was learning how to read. She just wanted to know everything she read. Right? No, there was more to it. The book was the one thing she'd kept from her mother's house, now deserted. She barely remembered her mother, except for that when she had a nightmare she slept in the same bed, and her mother stroked her hair. Her mother's name was Liesel. She had pretty blond hair, down to her waist, kept in a tight braid. There was always a bow slung over her shoulder.

Agnes had her eyes.

"I answered your question," Delvin taunted.

"That book was my Ma's," she answered. Not true – it was her father's. Why her father would have a book with Breton writing was beyond Agnes.

Reviews would be much appreciated. Especially critique. A lot of this is stuff I came up with cause I was bored too.

Update: Fixed some formatting errors that were upsetting the flow.