Chapter 13 – Thursday's Child Has Far To Go

"There! It's open." Lord Fop turned to the man. "May I go now?"

The man peered into the safe. "It appears to be all there. Except … where's the necklace? The topaz necklace and the diamond earrings."

Chrissiania had them. "I don't know."

"Let me assure it will be in your best interest to remember."

Come what may, he would not tell this hooligan anything that might lead to his daughter. "I believe they are out at the jewelers, having the settings repaired."

The bandit cocked the hammer with his thumb. "Sir. Once more. Where are the diamonds?"

"Drop the weapon."

Ah-ha, Lord Fop thought, because he was the kind of man who thought "ah-ha." Inviting the Marine hadn't been a total waste of heavy weight invitation paper.

Then the bandit spun around and emptied his gun into the Marine's chest.

Lord Fop was stunned.

And then Lord Fop was filled with the rage of a man who had just seen his special guest killed in front of him. He grabbed at the closest object he could put his hands on and threw it. A priceless Varnan vase with crackled glaze in blue and white (c. 1180 – 1210) exploded on the bandit's forehead.

"Nice," said the Captain.

Lord Fop looked up. He could see right through the Marine.

His head spun and he swallowed thickly. "Should I call a doctor?"

"I don't think you hit him that hard." The Marine became significantly more substantial, leaned over, and picked the man up by the back of his jacket. "Let's go."

Lord Fop followed his guest, warm in the wonderful feeling known as total shock and keeping an eye out for more smashable family heirlooms.


Important lessons were learned on Runess.

For example, Mr. 11 had learned that he wasn't half as smart as he thought he was. And the debutantes learned that candlesticks make a satisfying thud on the back of a man's head. Smoker learned that aristocrats weren't the completely useless pieces of meat he'd thought them to be and the aristocrats learned you didn't have to have a traceable lineage to be lethal.

But out of the evening it was Mr. 11's hired hands who learned the most.

They learned that men in hose and wigs had earned their right to wear them.

They learned that what sheltered young women lack in weapons training they make up for in unrestrained vicious enthusiasm.

They learned that not all young women were sheltered; some were Marines who did have weapons training which, combined with the aforementioned unrestrained vicious enthusiasm, was quite inconvenient.

They learned that you cannot punch, cut, slice, pummel or bludgeon smoke.

They learned, in short, that they were not paid enough for this sort of grief.

And one bandit learned a special lesson.

He'd had an unremarkable life filled with bullying and petty larceny activities until a scout had approached him and offered him a place in a secret organization and an opportunity to build a Utopia. He hadn't needed any incentive other than the steady pay and the opportunity to inflict pain.

And that evening this man learned that you should not do a run up behind a Marine who is carrying the body of your boss and try to kick him in the Jack and Jim because your foot will go straight through him. This will cause you to land on your back. And you will end up staring into the face of a Devil who feels the need to give you a few moments of his very intense and thorough attention – moments that stretch out fire hot into eternities.

And then someone will smash a pot on your forehead.


Miss Thursday didn't learn anything new. She was already aware that no one pays much attention to maids carrying large sacks if everything around her is on fire.

She fished in her cleavage for the ring of copied keys she had collected during her employment period, quite certain that tonight would be the last night to use them.

She opened the door to the dining room. Silver wasn't quite as good as gold, but it could be melted down just as easily.

Miss Thursday began filling her bag. She spun around when the door slammed shut behind her.

Jeffrey stalked forward. He pointed at the sack that was filled with platters and silverware. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What's it look like?"

"Are you stealing?" he asked suspiciously.

She sneered. "You going to stop me?"

"Certainly not."

Jeffrey had had a Trying Evening. He had been bashed into the table, been the scapegoat for an insane Marine, been browbeaten by a child wearing too much make-up, been trampled by frantic aristocrats, been mistakenly bludgeoned by a candlestick wielding debutante, and worst of all, he'd had to watch an entire month's worth of preparations go up in smoke.

The lesson Jeffrey had learned? Nothing was worth this; generations of service be damned. He palmed a plated serving spoon.

Miss Thursday goggled at the dignified butler as he helped himself to the silver. Then she shut her open mouth and threw everything into the sack that she could get her hands on.

"What's your name?" he asked, as if they were at a social gathering and not blatantly stealing from their employer.

"Thursday," she said quickly.

Jeffrey took the candlesticks off the mantelpiece. "What do you plan to do after this, Miss Thursday?"

"It's just Thursday." The sack was full to bursting and she was ready to go. She hefted it over her shoulder. "I don't know about you, but I plan to run like mad."

"Would it be inconvenient if I joined you?"

She heard screams and curses somewhere outside. "Certainly not."

Jeffrey held the glass patio door open for her. She curtsied and stepped through. They walked boldly into the dark and smoky garden and never looked back.