The Thief's Tale

Quietly, the thief eased the wiry pick into the trunk’s lock.
There was a tense moment as she twisted it; the moment of truth, people in the Shadow’s Choir often said, was the moment you escaped with your target.
But for this thief, it was the thrilling moment when the security fell to a wire and a steady hand.
The lock clicked. A smile stretched across her face.
Looking around the room, she had to wonder why this trunk was the target. The stone tower was filled with piles of wondrous things; glistening gold and silver crowns were merely discarded on equally expensive-looking rugs; the grubby stone floor covered in things like apple-shaped rubies and a stuffed white rabbit.
A pair of glass slippers lay between a collection of jewelled lamps and a loose-flowing silk cape of a scarlet red hue that caught her eye particularly well.
She loved the colour red.
The thief turned back to the unopened trunk – stopping only to briefly gaze at a sparkling glass rose – and slowly raised the lid. A dragon’s puff of dust rose into her eyes, making her blink. For a moment, she coughed, her vision unfocused.
Finally, she looked down with watery eyes. A book lay there, in folds of purple satin. It was covered in a thick layer of dust that clung to the thief’s finger like a plague.
She lifted the book out of its cradle, and read the inscription through the veil of grime.
Faerie Tales the bronze inscription boasted. What was a Faerie Tale? The thief could only assume that it was something of great power.
The thief stood, the book clutched in her arms. This object was special. She could feel its vulnerability.
She would care for it.
She would protect it on its journey home.