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Charmaine, despised him. Even absent and unaware, the smarmy bastard interfered with her plans.
    Another deep breath brought her the delicate floral scents of the flowers and blooming trees scattered about the garden, soothing Simta’s frayed nerves a bit. With cat grace, she moved out from behind Trelsar’s statue, giving it silent thanks for protecting her from idle eyes. The garden was bathed in deep shadows. The twin moons of Callendale and Cafia had not yet risen, wouldn’t for another half an hour, giving her another advantage to be thankful for. Every shrub and tree and flower seemed to loom as she crept across the ground to the manor’s side.
    Pausing, Simta waited, her eyes darting about, halfway expecting some of the plants to attack. It had happened to her before, though not often. Only a few of the highest families worshipped Omitan, god of the land and woods. Some of those few had formed pacts with Omitan’s servants, tree gelfs and sprites who crept about at night, ready to either warn the house guards or attack intruders with trees or bushes infused by their spirits. Bad enough, but gods forbid if one of the little buggers got their teeth into a person. They owned nasty bites and were mildly poisonous.
    After a few moments of stillness, Simta relaxed. Nothing. As she had suspected, Omitan’s servants shunned this place.
    Imagining herself as just another piece of the dark, Simta hugged the manor wall and slipped around until she crouched beneath the study window. Earlier in the evening, while attending the party, she had made an excuse to slip off by herself in order to unlock the study window. No one questioned her absence. Truthfully, she made people nervous. With what she knew about many of their personal lives, more than a few of her social peers felt better with her gone. Fine with her. Simta didn’t care for their company either, bunch of liars, cheats, and uppity prigs.
    She heard only the quiet chirps of insects and an occasional night bird’s call. Here, in the upper echelons of Yylse, the rich and richer maintained a tight community tucked carefully behind stone walls and cold, iron fences. Nothing touched the aristocracy that they didn’t allow in. Even Hell approached only with an invitation.
    With a gloved hand, Simta reached up to the window. The hinged panes swung wide, coming open with barely a squeak. Simta hefted herself inside. Her lithe frame slid silently over the sill and landed without incident on the other side. She closed the window behind her, leaving it cracked just enough so she could push them open for a quick escape. The study held pools of deep shadows. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. The desk containing the book pressed against the far north wall, directly opposite of where she stood. Two chairs, a globe stand, and a filing cabinet were the only objects she had to worry about knocking into. Along with these potential obstructions, the room also held the desk and chair, a couch along the wall, and an oversized bookcase filled with massive tomes.
    Nodding satisfaction, Simta slid one booted foot in front of the other, careful to mind the rug’s edge. Once she made it to the desk, it would be easy to find the exact drawer and begin picking it open.
    Simta paused for a moment. This really was very easy. Much easier then she thought it should be. Then again, she’d done jobs requiring less than ten minutes work. People tended to get careless the longer something sat safe. How long had Malaria been after this book, and why hadn’t he come to get it himself?
    Bent down, her mind preoccupied with too many thoughts about the why of this job and not enough on the precautions, Simta failed to notice the door had opened until the brazier next to it flared to life.
    Tools slipped from her hand. She was too shocked to care that they fell. Jerking her head upward, she saw the worst of all possible people standing in the doorway.
    “Looking for something?” A voice