They enter separately.

That’s Violet’s rule.

She watches Astrid go first—laughing already, hair loose, lute slung easy like an afterthought. Astrid belongs anywhere. Violet waits three breaths, then follows, shoulders loose, expression bored. Violet edges the perimeter, clocking doors, windows, the position of the stairwell. She catches Rowan’s eye. Nods. He slips toward the back. Ilsa ghosts past Violet’s shoulder, light as rumor, already counting pockets.

Inside, the safe is exactly where Astrid said it would be. Ilsa slips in behind them, breathless, grinning.

“Crowd’s drunk,” she whispers. “Astrid’s killing it.”

Violet’s mouth twitches. “She always does.”

They work fast. Violet doesn’t rush them, but she feels the timing. The way Astrid’s voice swells downstairs, the way a song like this only holds attention for so long.

“Thirty seconds,” Violet says quietly.

They finish in twenty-five.

Outside, in the alley behind the house, they regroup one by one. Astrid arrives last, breathless, eyes bright.

“Tell me you got it,” she says.

Ilsa lifts the coin pouch. Violet nods once.

Astrid laughs and throws her arms around Violet’s neck, momentum carrying them both into the brick wall.

“You’re incredible,” Astrid says into her hair.

Violet stiffens for half a heartbeat—then relaxes, hands settling at Astrid’s waist.

“You were,” Violet replies.

Rowan clears his throat pointedly. Ilsa pretends not to watch.

Astrid pulls back, grinning at the group. “Drinks are on me.”

They share rooms when they can afford them, floors when they can’t. Rowan against the wall. Ilsa near the door. Astrid curled into Violet’s side, foot hooked over Violet’s calf like an anchor. Violet learns the rhythm of her breathing, where it catches in dreams.

She sleeps lighter than anyone, but when Astrid shifts, she adjusts automatically, even in half-sleep. She doesn’t touch when Astrid is asleep. That feels like crossing a line.

One night, Astrid whispers, “You don’t have to stay awake for us.”

She doesn’t move until she hears Astrid breathe properly, the hitch smoothing out into something deep and even. Only then does Violet sit up, stretch carefully so the floor doesn’t creak. She puts water on to heat. Quietly. The lookout—older now, goes by Rowan—grunts and rolls over.

In the morning, Astrid wakes last. Always. Hair everywhere, eyes half-lidded. She squints at Violet like she’s trying to decide whether she’s real.

“You’re still here,” Astrid says.

Violet smirks. “Disappointed?”

Astrid reaches for her hand instead of answering.

Of course, Astrid doesn't want Violet to disappear. She knows that. Ilsa knows that. Rowan knows that too.

Astrid wasn’t really questioning Violet still being there, she was just questioning why she herself was still there next to her. Everything revolves around Violet's rules, because Violet has clearly already mastered the game. And every time they attempt a job, she says that it's better for Astrid to have a stint away from her, just playing music and weaving together her siren songs.

Violet already has a name about the town, as one of them drunks that gathers cronies from all the shady nooks of the place. Astrid knows that's not true. Violet only has Ilsa and Rowan who are always there, the only people she can definitely call her own. And Violet has more wit than to want the false crown of reputation, she’s a proper rogue who prowls in the darkness and practices tricksy sleight of hand to steal back the wealth and the livelihood the state have stolen from her.

"You never know when this place could get nasty." Violet had told her once in the early days when they had only just met. "Believe me, I've seen it happen." And hence Violet's rule was instated. One part of the time, Astrid works for her, and in the other times, they pretend they don't know one another. Violet doesn't want the town's musician falling into disrepute. That would be Astrid's end, and at least the end to Violet's disguised criminality.

That morning, when they were all awake, bleary-eyed, Astrid watched the sunlight moving in through the practically non-existent curtains, and guiltily decided to leave when Violet went to pilfer something that she hoped would have some semblance of breakfast. She should have left yesterday.

***

It's normally about a week until Violet decides to get her attention again, so she gets into the greasy tavern like she does every day, even the most drunk and unseeing people captivated by the plunking rhythm of lute strings. She likes to sing now. At the start, it was just a way to gather money, the faint lining of people's pockets. But then, people called her a songbird, said she was gifted. She still got paid dirt, but compliments weren't completely nothing.

There's not a single penny in return tonight, but she gets to drinking the dregs of a man's whiskey that the overworked maids haven't cleaned up yet. Its dark caramel taste is marred by the overwhelming scent of budget tobacco that had been carried to the tumbler through his breath. It’s better than nothing.

Tonight will be another night out alone some place, under a starchy hay sack if she’s lucky enough to get her hands on one. She doesn’t have enough silvers to get a room, especially after buying their round after the job went well two days ago. She secures her lute on her back, tightens her hair, stiffens when she hears the bell above the door jangle, realises she has nothing to hide.

She's spent enough nights with Violet to know it's her as soon as she hears footsteps on the ground and breathing reverberating off the low rafters of the building. Why back so soon?

She turns around. Sure enough, she's there, Ilsa slinking behind her, green eyes settled on her almost like a feline from behind the folds of her dark hair. Rowan, already hunched over the counter, trying to scare the barman into free drinks. Rowan towers above anyone.

The barman doesn't give any of Violet's group drinks, but he isn't going to talk, Rowan has ensured that. The place is deserted except for them now, the ghostly purple hues of the twilight settling in under the thick smog of the streets. Most people clocked off ages ago. A candle is snuffed by a pale, slender hand in the window opposite. Violet won't even have to talk cryptically.

"Gone so quick this morning, huh?" She says.

"Couldn't get away from you fast enough." Astrid quips in return, the faintest smile playing across her lips. She runs a finger through her hair shyly.

"I didn’t even tell you everything." Violet says.

"About what?" Violet replies, Rowan and Ilsa exchange a look of disbelieving confusion.

Violet laughs, that easy laughter. Astrid has heard it in her sleep and in her waking. "You seriously think I'm just gonna ignore you after you finished the initiation?"

"Initiation?"

"So I can check you're up to this heist I was on about."

Astrid's heart stalls, sickness rising up in her throat. "I thought what we did the other night was the heist." She wouldn't steal off the cuff for no good reason, even if she did need the money.

"Ha. No. Very funny. That was just a job. That wasn't hard. Even though you failed so many times. The whole thing was staged for your benefit."

"What?"

"Yeah. I know. Welcome to the club, newbie."

Astrid doesn’t speak at first.

The tavern smells like sour ale and cold smoke, and suddenly it’s too small. The walls feel closer than they did a minute ago. Her fingers curl against the lute strap until the leather bites.

“Staged,” she says finally, like she’s testing the word for weight. “For my benefit.”

Violet watches her the way she watches a locked door. Calm. Measuring. Ready.

“You needed to know how you move under pressure,” Violet says. “How you listen. How you recover when something goes wrong.”

“It went wrong because you made it go wrong,” Astrid snaps. The sound of her own voice surprises her. It’s sharper than she meant, cracks at the end.

Ilsa shifts, just a step, like she might intervene. Rowan stays very still.

Violet tilts her head. “And you adapted.”

Astrid laughs, once. It comes out wrong. “You set me up to fail.”

“I set you up to learn.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” Violet agrees easily. “It isn’t.”

That’s worse somehow. The agreement lands like a closed door.

Astrid swallows. Her chest feels tight, like she’s been running. “You let me think I was risking you. All of you.”

“You were,” Violet says. “Just not in the way you thought.”

Astrid looks at Rowan. He won’t meet her eyes. Ilsa does, for half a second, and there’s something like apology there. Or warning.

“So what,” Astrid says quietly. “If I’d frozen? If I’d bolted?”

Violet doesn’t answer immediately. The pause stretches. Honest, this time.

“Then I wouldn’t be here,” Violet says at last. “And neither would they.”

Astrid nods, slow. Something settles in her stomach, heavy and cold. Not fear—understanding.

“You never told me I was being tested.”

“No.” Violet steps closer, lowering her voice out of habit. “Because if I had, you would’ve performed. I needed to see who you were when you thought no one was watching.”

Astrid’s hands are shaking now. She tucks them under her arms, presses them tight.

“You already knew who I was,” she says. “You said you did.”

Violet’s mouth tightens. Not a smile this time. “I knew who you seemed to be.”

Silence drops between them. Even the city outside feels muted, like it’s holding its breath.

Astrid exhales, long and unsteady. “So what happens now?”

Violet studies her face, the way she always does when she’s deciding something important. “Now you decide.”

“Decide what?”

“Whether you walk away,” Violet says. “Or whether you stop pretending this is just songs and luck.”

Astrid laughs again, softer. “You don’t make it easy to walk away.”

“I know.”

“That part of the test too?”

Violet hesitates. Just a fraction. Astrid sees it. Latches onto it.

“No,” Violet says. “That part’s just me.”

Astrid closes her eyes. For a moment she’s back on the floor beside Violet, listening to her breathe, trusting the dark to stay quiet because Violet is awake. The memory hurts more than the anger.

When she opens her eyes, she looks straight at Violet.

“If I stay,” Astrid says, “you don’t get to lie to me like that again.”

Violet doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t deflect. She nods once. “Fair.”

“And I don’t disappear just because you think it’s safer.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” Astrid cuts in, gently but firmly. “You decide who gets close. Who gets protected. Who gets kept in the dark.”

Violet searches her face, something unreadable flickering there. “You want closer?”

“I want honest.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“All right,” Violet says. “Honest, then.”

She holds Astrid’s gaze. “If you stay, this stops being a game. People get hurt. Eventually, someone won’t get back up. And I won’t always be able to keep you separate.”

Astrid nods. Her fear is still there, but it’s quieter now, edged with resolve. “I know.”

Violet watches her for a long moment, then steps back, giving her space. A choice, not a retreat.

“Then welcome,” Violet says softly, “for real this time.”

Astrid adjusts her lute on her back. Her hands are steady now.

“Next time,” she says, “you don’t get to stage-manage my courage.”

Violet’s mouth curves, sharp and proud. “Good,” she says. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Astrid expects the room to exhale now that the decision is made, but it does not. The tavern stays tight and sour and watchful. Rowan finally moves, rubbing the back of his neck. “For what it is worth,” he says, “you handled it better than I did my first time.” Astrid snorts. “Your first time ended with a chair through a window.” Rowan smiles thin. “Exactly.”

Ilsa steps closer, voice low and careful. “You should know,” she says, “Violet does not test people she plans to discard.” Astrid lifts a brow. “Comforting. In a deeply unsettling way.” Violet does not interrupt. That alone feels like a concession.

“So this is it,” Astrid says, shifting the lute strap again, habit more than need. “No more curtains. No more rehearsals I do not know I am in.” Violet inclines her head. “You will still be watched,” she says. “Just not lied to.” Astrid considers that, then nods. “I can work with watched. Lied to makes me sloppy.”

They share a look that is not soft but is something close to respect. Violet gestures toward the door. “We leave at dawn,” she says. “If you change your mind, you walk away now and nothing follows you.” Astrid smiles faintly. “You keep offering exits,” she says. “Almost like you hope I will take one.” Violet does not answer, and the silence is answer enough.

Later, as they step back into the city air, Astrid thinks about fear and choice and how they often wear the same face. She tightens her grip on the lute, not as armor but as anchor. Staying, she realizes, is not bravery. It is simply deciding what you are willing to lose.