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“I’ll be off then, grandfather,” Petra said in her native tongue.
Her grandfather glanced up from the spool of thread in his lap. “Be careful out there.”
“I’m always careful.”
An unconvinced grunt was his only response.
Petra smiled, giving her grandfather a quick hug.
“I’ll stay safe,” she said before throwing her scrap-made satchel over her shoulder and slipping out through the narrow crack they used as a door.
The passage beyond was dark, familiar, and warm with the breath of the opera house. Footsteps far above gently shook dust loose from the beams as Petra quickly climbed the stairs of nails hammered into the wall long ago by borrowers before her. Laughter boomed from somewhere outside the walls.
Laughter used to fill the inside of the walls as well. The hidden ways beneath Mittelfrank had once held many borrowers. Children raced through the beams. Scouts called warnings down the halls. Tiny lamps glowed warm behind loose stones.
Now it was just Petra and her grandfather. Even her father had gone out borrowing one night and never returned. The opera house was enormous—surely there must have been more borrowers somewhere within its walls, but Petra hadn’t seen another borrower in years.
Her grandfather said that was why proper borrowing mattered now more than ever.
Borrowers survived through discipline. Through caution. Through never taking more than they needed and never allowing themselves to be seen. Petra’s father had taught her every hidden route through the walls before she was old enough to borrow on her own. Her grandfather still corrected her posture when climbing pipes, still scolded her for wasting what little they had, still muttered that young borrowers grew careless too easily.
Petra intended to become the kind of borrower her family would be proud of.
She crossed carefully over a narrow water pipe slick with condensation, and climbed upward along an old rope left behind by scouts long ago. Below her came the muffled clatter of dishes and silverware from the kitchens. Above, the walls grew quieter. Warmer. The lingering smell of perfume and candle smoke drifted through the cracks alongside face powder and fresh flowers.
She had reached the songstresses’ quarters. Petra knew these walls best.
She told herself it was because performers left useful things behind. Thread. Ribbon. Half-burnt candles. It was much safer to borrow food from here than from the kitchen.
That was all true.
It was also true that she knew exactly which vent overlooked her favorite human’s room.
Borrowers who grew too curious about humans did not remain borrowers for long. Petra knew this. She had known it all her life. And despite every lesson her family had ever taught her, despite her pride as a borrower, Petra still returned to the same vent night after night.
The room below stretched enormous beneath the vent. Even after years of visiting these upper halls, Petra still found herself startled by the scale of human spaces. The bed alone looked large enough to lose herself in. Candlelight flickered dimly across polished wood and soft fabric far below, leaving long shadows gathered in the corners of the room.
Then the door swung open. Dorothea entered, dinner tray in hand, crimson dress clinging to her frame.
“I’m home,” she announced to the empty room with a quiet laugh.
Petra smiled before she could stop herself. Tonight was a good night, then.
On bad nights, Dorothea hardly spoke at all. She would sit motionless before the vanity mirror while untouched food cooled beside her, staring at her own reflection for so long Petra sometimes wondered if she had fallen asleep sitting upright. Occasionally Dorothea would mutter bitter little things beneath her breath—complaints about aging actresses, demanding nobles, impossible beauty standards Petra only half understood.
On those nights she didn’t sing. Petra disliked those nights.
But tonight Dorothea kicked the door shut behind herself and immediately began humming under her breath as she crossed the room and sat at her vanity. The sound drifted upward through the vent, warm and familiar, somehow making the enormous room feel smaller.
Petra relaxed at the sound of her voice.
At first, that was the only reason she came. She began listening simply because she liked the music.
Somewhere along the way, she had pieced the language together word by word. Her grandfather likely would have called it foolish. Petra had convinced herself it was practical.
But practical understanding didn’t explain why she found herself looking forward to more than just the singing.
Below the vent, Dorothea moved through the familiar rhythm of her evening.
Her humming gradually slipped into song as she pulled pins free from her hair one by one, scattering them carelessly across the polished wood beside her supper. Dark curls spilled loose over her shoulders.
She paused halfway through a verse, frowned slightly, then sang the same line again slower.
“Rehearsal was rough today,” Dorothea informed her reflection as she removed her earrings. “Coach has been terribly nitpicky lately. Though I suppose he always gets like this before performances.”
Dorothea always spoke as though someone else were in the room listening. Perhaps that was another reason Petra found herself returning here each night.
Eventually Dorothea drifted from singing to tired muttering while she picked idly at her dinner. As always, she left most of it unfinished before finally standing to undress.
Petra quickly turned her attention toward the duct behind her and waited.
The humming picked up again alongside the soft rustle of fabric. A few moments later the room dimmed as Dorothea began extinguishing candles one by one, leaving only a single flame burning beside the bed.
Petra glanced back just as Dorothea climbed beneath the blankets with another dramatic sigh.
“Goodnight,” she mumbled sleepily into the pillows.
Petra smiled faintly.
Moments later, Dorothea’s breathing softened into a steady rhythm. Petra still waited until she was certain she was asleep before slipping through the vent.
The descent toward the vanity would have terrified less experienced borrowers. Petra secured her grappling hook—a shepherd-hook earring back fastened carefully to braided thread—around one of the vent slats before lowering herself silently downward. She landed lightly atop the vanity mirror frame before climbing easily down the embroidered scarf draped carelessly over the glass.
The scent of bread and fruit filled the air around her. More than enough for both herself and her grandfather. Petra worked quickly, wrapping leftovers carefully inside scraps of cloth before securing them inside her satchel.
Then a gleam of gold caught her eye.
Dorothea’s earrings rested beside the tray, shining softly in the candlelight. The same earrings Petra had watched sway beside Dorothea’s face many times before. The earrings she wore on both good nights and bad.
One of them was already in her hands before Petra fully realized what she was doing, and one phrase echoed loudly in her mind: bad borrowing.
Food was borrowing. Matches were borrowing. Dropped pins and scraps of cloth forgotten beneath dressers were borrowing.
Taking something she didn’t need—something Dorothea would certainly notice missing—was something else entirely.
But as Petra stared at the beautiful green gem that mirrored the color of Dorothea’s eyes so perfectly, her better judgment faltered. She swallowed hard, then awkwardly wrestled the gigantic earring against her back alongside the satchel before beginning the long climb back toward the vent.
~***~
Morning rehearsal dragged on endlessly.
“Again,” Coach sighed from somewhere near the stage.
Dorothea slumped deeper into her chair beside Manuela while another pair of exhausted songstresses attempted the same scene for what felt like the hundredth time that morning.
“Why are we even here if he’s just going to keep working this scene?” Dorothea muttered.
Manuela snorted softly beside her.
“You don’t want to watch them butcher their duet another dozen times?”
“Not especially,” Dorothea whined. “I should have stayed in my room.”
“You can’t spend all your time holed up in your room,” Manuela said. “You already lock yourself in there every evening like a nun.”
“Please,” Dorothea scoffed. “After rehearsal, I deserve a little time to myself.”
She sighed.
“Though I may need to stop bringing my dinner upstairs,” Dorothea crossed her arms. “I think I have mice.”
“I’ve noticed for a while now that whatever I don’t finish has been… touched the next morning,” she continued. “And this morning one of my earrings went missing.”
Manuela perked up slightly.
“Could be mice,” she said. Then, after a brief pause, she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Or the little people in the walls.”
Dorothea stifled a laugh. “Oh, please.”
Manuela looked at Dorothea, expression unmoving.
Dorothea’s smile faltered slightly. “You’re not serious… are you?”
Before Manuela could answer, a blur of white fur shot across the stage, followed shortly by a loud crash from the left wing.
“CHRISTINE!” Coach barked.
The duet yelped in surprise as the cat darted between their legs and into the orchestra pit.
“Will someone please do something about that damn cat!?”
Dorothea burst into laughter as Coach’s increasingly furious shouting echoed through the theater. She stood and quickly made her way over to the pit.
“Come here, sweetheart,” she cooed.
The cat promptly leapt up to Dorothea’s legs, rubbing her face on her calf with a soft meow. Dorothea bent down and picked her up, cradling her in her arms and scratching behind her ears.
“Thank you, Dorothea,” Coach said with an exhausted sigh, then continued under his breath, “I don’t know why we ever took in that stray to begin with…”
Dorothea’s smile faded slightly as she tightened her grip around Christine. She knew he was talking about the cat, but she couldn’t help but feel disheartened anyway.
She sat back down beside Manuela. Christine curled up into her lap immediately.
“Wall people?” Dorothea whispered. “That is either last night’s wine talking or one of your old theater ghost stories.”
Manuela shrugged with a smile.
“Old theaters take on a life of their own,” she said, running her hand through the cat’s fur. “Christine isn’t the only creature that runs amok around here.”
Dorothea rolled her eyes dramatically. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Breaks over. Places, everyone. Run it again!” Coach shouted.
The duet groaned loudly before rehearsal picked up again.
~***~
Petra slung her satchel over her shoulder. She adjusted the straps uncomfortably, still thinking about the night before. About how foolish she had been.
The hidden earring remained tucked behind the abandoned jewelry box she used as a bed. She couldn’t help glancing longingly toward the gem throughout the day, each look twisting guilt and fondness together painfully in her chest.
She’d delayed her departure enough—she couldn’t sulk any longer.
“I’m heading out,” Petra announced.
“The upper halls again?” her grandfather asked.
Petra stiffened slightly, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the crack in front of her. “It’s the safest place to borrow food.”
A quiet humph answered her.
Petra couldn’t quite read him, and honestly, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to.
She slipped quickly through the doorway and into the walls.
Petra moved through the hidden passages faster than usual that night. She kept her attention firmly ahead, refusing to think about the earring still hidden beneath her bed or the uncomfortable feeling lingering in her chest.
Tonight, and every night moving forward, she would borrow only what she needed. Nothing more.
The room beyond the vent was dark save for a single candle flickering beside the bed.
Petra frowned slightly.
Dorothea was already asleep. She lay curled beneath the blankets, one arm tucked beneath the pillow. No soft humming drifted upward through the vent tonight. No tired muttering to herself. No singing.
The silence left Petra strangely uneasy. Still, after several long moments passed without movement, Petra carefully slipped through the vent anyway.
The climb down felt heavier tonight.
Petra went through the familiar motions—landing atop the mirror frame, lowering herself toward the polished surface below, wrapping scraps from the plate and placing them in her satchel. Even so, her movements felt clumsier tonight. Twice she fumbled the cloth wrapping entirely, and more than once she caught herself glancing around nervously instead of focusing on her work. She secured the last of the food inside her satchel before heading back to the scarf hanging from the mirror—
“Oh.”
Petra froze so violently she nearly lost her footing.
Behind her, blankets rustled softly.
“Hello, little mouse.”
Petra turned slowly.
Two massive pools of jade green stared directly at her.
Her blood ran cold. For one horrifying moment neither of them moved. Then Dorothea slowly pushed herself upright against the pillows, eyes still fixed curiously on Petra.
“Though,” she murmured, “you’re no mouse at all, are you?”
Petra stared back, eyes wide. She could barely breathe.
Dorothea tilted her head, a small smile forming on her face.
“Are you,” she asked softly, “the little thief who stole my earring?”
Petra moved before she could think. She spun sharply and launched herself toward the hanging scarf, catching the fabric with both hands and immediately climbing. Fast. Faster than she ever had before.
“Wait—” Dorothea scrambled out of bed.
Terror pounded violently through Petra as she ran across the mirror frame, seized the dangling rope of her hook, and continued upward as her muscles burned.
Somewhere below, Dorothea took a hesitant step forward.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said gently.
Petra scrambled into the vent, yanked her grappling hook free, and disappeared into the walls.
She barely remembered the journey home. By the time she finally stumbled back through the narrow doorway hidden behind the walls, her entire body ached.
Her grandfather looked up immediately.
“Petra?”
She avoided his gaze as she hurried past him.
“I’m fine,” she said far too quickly.
His expression tightened slightly. “What happened?”
Petra’s fingers curled painfully around her satchel strap.
“There was a rat,” she muttered weakly. “I’m just a little shaken up.”
Her grandfather didn’t respond, but she could feel him watching her.
After a long moment he sighed quietly. “Mm.”
Shame twisted violently in Petra’s stomach. She dropped her satchel on the matchbox table before slipping into her small room and pulling the metal lid shut behind her.
She collapsed heavily onto her bed.
For a while, she simply sat there breathing, trying desperately not to think about the enormous green eyes that watched her so intently. About the gentle voice that called after her.
Petra shoved the thoughts away immediately.
Her eyes drifted toward the earring. Slowly, Petra pulled it back into the candlelight.
The jade shimmered softly in her hands—the same color as the massive eyes that, even terrified, Petra still found beautiful.
Petra squeezed her eyes shut hard.
Thief.
Borrowers were not thieves. They survived through discipline, through caution, through taking only what they needed and leaving no trace behind.
But Petra had stolen something from a human for no reason beyond wanting, and she was seen because of it.
Tears burned her eyes. She tightened her grip around the earring.
Petra was not a thief.
She would make this right. Tomorrow she would return it before Dorothea came back to her room. Then she would never visit that room again.
It was the correct decision—the only decision. So why did her chest ache? Why couldn’t she stop herself from crying?
Petra curled tightly under the handkerchief blanket, clutching the earring painfully against her.
Tomorrow, Petra told herself firmly, she would be a proper borrower again.
~***~
Rehearsal had somehow gone even worse than the day before.
“No, no, no—stop,” Coach snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Dorothea, where is your head today?”
Dorothea winced slightly as the rest of the cast avoided looking at her.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered automatically.
She knew exactly where her head was. Ever since last night, her thoughts kept drifting back toward the tiny girl in her room. Toward the panic on her face and the way she had climbed like a frightened spider back into the vent.
Coach let out a long exhausted sigh before gesturing vaguely toward the stage. “Clearly none of you are getting anything done today. We’re done. Go—all of you. Get some rest or something. Come back tomorrow with your heads screwed on properly.”
The theater was silent as Coach stood and left. Shortly after the soft murmur of conversation spread among the songstresses.
Dorothea gathered her things quietly and made her way to the exit before anyone could stop her. She could feel Manuela’s concerned gaze lingering on her all the way to the door.
Manuela was the reason she was in this situation. She’d gotten into her head—filled it with ridiculous stories until Dorothea started imagining impossible things. That had to be it, she was just dreaming.
Dorothea frowned slightly to herself. She knew it wasn’t a dream.
She hadn’t meant to terrorize the poor thing. Honestly, she wasn’t entirely sure what she could have done differently. Of course she was terrified, Dorothea was easily a hundred times her size, maybe even more.
Dorothea’s footsteps echoed softly in the stairwell as she made her way back up to her room.
Still, some small part of her hoped the tiny girl might return. She couldn’t explain why. Perhaps it was simple curiosity, or maybe the thought of someone else sharing her room made her feel a little less lonely. And knowing she had probably scared her away for good left an uncomfortable ache in her chest. At the very least Dorothea wanted to apologize properly for last night. She doubted her fumbling reassurance could have done much to calm someone fleeing for her life.
She sighed as she finally reached her room.
There wasn’t any use dwelling on it. Dorothea was letting this affect her on stage, and she was causing trouble for her fellow songstresses. Coach was right—maybe rest would do her some good.
She opened the door—
The same small girl was standing atop her vanity, missing earring in hand.
Dorothea didn’t dare move. She didn’t want to scare her off.
“Hello again, little mouse,” she called from the doorway.
The girl had already pivoted toward the scarf, but she hesitated. Slowly, cautiously, she set the earring down before glancing over her shoulder.
Dorothea remained perfectly still, save for the small smile she couldn’t quite suppress.
Then white fur shot between Dorothea’s legs.
Christine darted across the room, launching herself toward the vanity. She slammed into it hard enough to rattle the mirror violently.
The surface lurched beneath the small girl’s feet. She stumbled backward and fell hard against the mirror behind her.
The cat leapt upward immediately, cornering the girl against the glass.
Dorothea lunged forward as the tiny figure vanished beneath white fur and flailing paws.
“CHRISTINE!” she yelled as she caught the cat by the scruff. White claws scraped sharply across the vanity’s surface.
Christine twisted indignantly in her grip with a furious yowl.
“No ma’am,” Dorothea scolded breathlessly, clutching the struggling cat against her chest. “That is not how we treat guests.”
The tiny girl remained frozen against the mirror, breathing heavily as her eyes darted between Dorothea and Christine.
“Goddess,” Dorothea said, horrified. “Are you alright?”
After a long moment, the girl gave one small, shaky nod.
Relief washed across Dorothea’s face.
Christine squirmed again.
“Absolutely not,” Dorothea said as she marched to the door, unceremoniously tossing the cat into the hallway before slamming the door behind her.
Christine let out a deeply offended meow from the hallway before soft pawsteps retreated down the hallway.
Dorothea turned back to the vanity. The girl upon it was standing again, one hand on the scarf as though she was still deciding whether to stay or flee.
“Please don’t leave.” Dorothea took a cautious step forward before stopping at the way the girl immediately stiffened.
“You’re sure you’re alright?” she asked, sitting on the edge of her bed—farthest from the vanity.
“I am fine,” she replied carefully. Her grip tightened slightly on the scarf, then she let go.
“You were saving me,” she added, taking a few cautious steps toward the edge. “I am owing you my life.”
She finally raised her eyes to meet Dorothea’s. “You have my gratitude.”
Dorothea smiled. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
Silence settled between the two. Dorothea remained deliberately still, while the girl still looked like she may take off at any moment.
“Would you tell me your name?” Dorothea asked. “Or would you prefer I keep calling you ‘little mouse’?”
The tiny girl hesitated.
“I am called Petra,” she said stiffly. “And I am not being a mouse.”
Dorothea laughed softly. “Of course you’re not.”
She shifted onto her side atop the bed, resting her head against one hand as she settled closer to the vanity. “And what a beautiful name.”
Petra turned slightly, hiding her face.
“I’m—”
“Dorothea,” Petra said quietly. “I am already knowing your name.”
Dorothea blinked. “Oh?”
“I have been coming to your room for many moons,” Petra confessed, the words suddenly spilling out faster than she could contain them.
“You are always bringing food… It was making borrowing much easier, so I was returning often,” she continued miserably. “But then I was hearing your voice. Your singing, your speaking—it was bringing me great joy.”
Petra’s fingers twisted tightly together.
“I was no longer coming only for borrowing,” she admitted quietly. “I was coming selfishly.”
“Well, I’m glad I’ve been entertaining,” Dorothea smiled.
Petra shrank immediately, as though Dorothea’s gentle teasing made everything worse.
“I am not acting like a proper borrower. I did not have any need for your earring. I was taking it,” she hesitated for a moment, “because it was reminding me of your eyes.”
Petra looked away as the words left her mouth, her face flushing a deep crimson. With a deep breath, she forced herself to meet Dorothea’s gaze again.
“I am sorry,” she finished quietly, “for everything.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Dorothea’s expression softened. “I scared you half to death last night.”
“No. This is being my fault,” Petra pressed on. “Borrowers are not to be seen by humans. We are to be quiet and careful. We are not staying in one place too long. We are not becoming familiar with humans or allowing them familiarity with us.”
She straightened as she spoke, like she was reciting something long memorized.
“If we are being noticed, we leave. It is necessary for survival.”
Petra’s composure faltered, and she continued softer, “but I was breaking all of those rules.”
Then, quieter still, “and now I am speaking with you.”
Petra forced herself upright again, shoulders squaring with visible effort.
“I have returned what I have taken. I will be leaving now,” she said firmly, though the words sounded far less certain than she probably intended. She turned and started toward the hanging scarf.
“Petra, wait.”
She paused despite herself.
“Your rules sound perfectly sensible,” Dorothea said, standing slowly before carefully kneeling in front of the vanity, bringing herself nearer to Petra’s level.
“But what if, for example,” Dorothea began lightly, “there happened to be a borrower who enjoyed the company of a human.”
Petra immediately tensed. Dorothea continued anyway.
“And what if,” she said, resting her chin against her hand, “that human was growing rather fond of said borrower?”
Petra turned just enough to look back at Dorothea, something painfully soft crossing her expression before it vanished again.
“But that’s just an example,” Dorothea said innocently. “Couldn’t there be an exception for that sort of situation?”
“There are no exceptions,” Petra said unconvincingly.
Dorothea’s smile softened knowingly. She lifted her head, fingertips tapping lightly against the vanity’s surface.
“Mm,” she hummed. “I’m sure there’s at least one exception.”
Petra watched her suspiciously.
“Say, if there happened to be a human who saved a borrower from a terrifying beast,” Dorothea said dramatically. “And then that borrower declared that she owed that human her life.”
“That is not—”
“Wouldn’t that stubborn pride of yours insist on repaying such an enormous debt properly?”
Petra narrowed her eyes. “You are making fun of me.”
“Perhaps, little mouse.”
To Dorothea’s delight, Petra looked offended for half a second before her expression slipped back into uncertainty.
Dorothea’s teasing smile faded into something gentler.
“All I’m trying to say is…” she sighed quietly, “I would very much like it if you kept coming.”
Petra stared at her a few moments longer than she’d probably meant to. Then, before Dorothea could say anything else, she turned sharply and hurried for the scarf.
Dorothea laughed softly as Petra climbed swiftly back up the mirror.
“I suppose I’ll have to keep leaving food out, then,” she called lightly after her.
It didn’t take long before Petra had reached the vent above and paused there, one hand still gripping the rope of her hook. She glanced back down toward Dorothea.
“You are causing great difficulty,” Petra informed her.
Dorothea rose to her feet, smiling up at her.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“…Perhaps.”
A moment later she was gone.