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So, this is the story of how my house got burned down. Well, technically, it wasn’t my house. The owner had packed up and left five years ago, and I saw no reason why a perfectly good house like that should go to waste, so I moved in. It had everything a girl like me could need – it was fully furnished, out of the way of nosy neighbors, and perfectly situated between Paris and Le Havre so I could move the takings of contraband I regularly picked up from France’s greatest city and ship them to Amsterdam where my fence, Van Laar, sold them on the black market.
That’s right, in case you hadn’t noticed, I am a thief. To be honest, I’m one of the best thieves Europe has ever seen. It all started with a toy rabbit I stole as a child, then moving on as I got older to jewels, masterpieces, and my personal favorite, money. I can pick locks in mere seconds, and pick pockets so the marks don’t realize they’ve been taken for hours. But enough about me, back to the house.
It was a spring day and I was trying out my new design of grappling hook for climbing up the sides of houses. This house was great for training: huge, with three floors and plenty of space, a sturdy roof, and a hidden cellar for storing loot. But I digress. Now, I’m up on the roof, admiring the view when I spot them: Four men, three on horseback and one driving a cart, all heading toward the house. I picked up the hook and rope and swung down through an open window into the house. When I got to the staircase, I could hear them opening shutters and talking. I moved silently down the stairs to get a closer look at the men who thought they could just march into my house. Creeping closer, I could see that there were in fact five men, one of whom was injured. He must’ve been in the cart. I recognized another as Emile Bonnaire, a trader operating out of Le Havre. I never used him to move my swag, he always tries to cheat you out of it. I got close to the door of the sitting room where they were, and I caught a bit their conversation:
“So, how did you know about this place?” asked the youngest of the group.
“I own it,” replied another.
Oh, shit. I ducked back as he exited the room so he wouldn’t see me, but I could see the shoulder pad attached to his doublet. A Musker. Just what I needed, the rightful homeowner, who happens to be part of the King’s elite guard, deciding to come back. While he went toward the kitchen, I went to move my gear so the new arrivals wouldn’t know I was there and prepared for a long night ahead. The Muskers spent their time stitching up their injured friend, drinking from the wine cellar I’d built back up from nothing, and talking. I overheard Emile giving them some bullshit story about farming tobacco in the New World. Shaking my head, I decided to get some sleep. But even that was interrupted by the Muskers. I had to hide up under the bed canopy when the head Musker came in and stood staring down at the bed. Very weird.
The next morning, I was in the kitchen making coffee when I saw the Muskers gathering outside, weapons ready, as a rider came through the gateway. When the rider got close, I saw it was Maria Bonnaire, acting injured. I watched as the young one moved to help her, only to have Maria pull a pistol on him.
“Seriously?” I said at the Muskers through the window as they drop their weapons on the ground. “You fell for that?!”
While Maria held the Muskers at gunpoint, Emile got on the back of her horse and off they went. The Muskers got on their horses and pursued them, except for the injured one. I finished my coffee and went down to the hidden cellar to start packing up my haul to go to Le Havre. If the Muskers were going to stay I would need to move out tonight. When everything was ready to be loaded on the cart, I went back up to the kitchen to get some food for the journey. Through the window, I saw Bonnaire leaving with three of the Muskers, but not the one who owned the house. I quickly did a search of the house, relieved to find he wasn’t there. Going outside, I saw they left their cart, so I went to see if they had left anything useful. Climbing in, I saw that there were lots of exotic items, presumably from Emile’s last trip to the New World. They would fetch a good price in Amsterdam. The sound of hooves caught my attention, and I stuck my head out in time to see the missing Musker ride through the gate posts, dismount, and go into the house. And yes, dear reader, I cussed him out with every profanity I could think of.
So, now I had to load my contraband into the cart while at the same time avoiding a Musker who was roaming through the house. And let me tell you, the only thing worse than a Musker is a drunk and moody Musker who’s downing your wine stash like it’s water and moaning about an old flame. It took me twice the amount of time it normally does to get everything loaded. I went up to the room where I put my gear to move it to a more secure place for when I returned. I paused when I heard a crash. Thinking it was the Musker falling down drunk, I ignored it. What I could not ignore was the smell of something burning. Opening the door, I saw a pair of window curtains on fire. Hearing footsteps going down the stairs, I raced over and saw a dark-haired woman descending the stairs with a torch, which she used to light another set curtains.
This is just great, I thought. First the Muskers, then some crazy lady decides to come light my house on fire. What is wrong with these people? Since it looked like I wouldn’t have a house to return to when I got back from Amsterdam, I ran back in the room and grabbed all my gear, then headed down the stairs. I got to the landing and saw the Musker speaking to the lady with the torch, then she hit him with torch, making him fall like a lightweight fighter.
“Seriously?!” I said, shaking my head. “Who pisses off someone with a lit torch?”
I headed toward the door only to see the young Musker that left earlier come running into the burning house, looking for the other one. I am now seriously thinking these Muskers are idiots. If these are the best soldiers in France, then no wonder stealing stuff in Paris is so easy. I left the house, threw my gear in the cart, and set off in the direction of Le Havre. The ride there was uneventful, but I’d loaded a few of the weapons just in case. I got to the harbor shortly after dawn, stowed my stuff in a secure place, and went to get something to eat. After breakfast, I went to find a ship to take me to Amsterdam. Luckily, Captain Picard had brought the Saltstone in and would be sailing to Amsterdam that evening. He agreed to take my cargo, so I fetched it from its hiding place in Emile’s warehouse, helping myself to a few more things that I knew Emile wouldn’t miss much.
Later, while waiting for the ship to depart, I stood on the deck considering what my next move would be. With my house gone, I would need a new base of operations, and there probably wasn’t going to be another house in France as suitable as that one had been. Maybe what I needed was a change of scenery. There were other countries nearby that I had visited over the years that could be good places to settle. England, perhaps. As I was making my decision, a flicker of light caught my eye. I turned my head to see the young Musker leading Emile to a ship nearby. Emile went aboard and waved the Musker off. I watched as Emile took one look at a man in black and called out for help. Seeing that no help would come, he jumped overboard and swam out to another ship that was leaving the harbor. Smiling as I watched him disappear, I heard footsteps and turned to see Captain Picard coming to join me.
“Good evening, Mademoiselle Parker,” he greeted me, handing me a cup of rhumbion. “Where will you be off to once you unload your cargo with Van Laar?”
“England,” I said with a smile. “But don’t worry, I’ll return to Paris soon enough.”