Copper Skies

London, Belgravia, November 1867

Cold bit into the soles of her bare feet. Her toes fanned out, balancing her weight on the edge of Worthington Manor’s window sill. A gust of wind tugged at her frame, biting into her skin. She held onto the massive stone lintel with her left hand, reaching for her belt with her right.

The stone was cold beneath her palm. A century of London rain had softened the sharpness of its edges and worn proud lines into gentle curves. The light colour of the walls stood out from the soot-blackened facades of the lesser London quarters. Worthington wealth showed - even in the stubborn act of cleanliness maintained against all odds.

The clouds tore open. Moonlight spilled over the City of Chimneys. London stretched beneath her like a sleeping machine. Gas lamps glimmered between rows of rooftops. Somewhere beyond the endless maze of brick and stone, the wheels of carriages still rattled over paved streets in a city that never truly slept. The wind carried the scent of coal smoke and the distant, muddy breath of the Thames.

A slender blade sprang into her palm, briefly sparkling in the silvery light before she pried it between the sashes of the window.

With a slow exhale, she methodically nudged the crescent-shaped window latch until it gave way. The window slid open without any sound, and half a breath later her feet sank into a lush carpet on the inside.

The bells of Big Ben tolled. She didn’t hesitate. Charlotte Moreau approached the door, the only sound a whisper of her skirts in the dark. The door was locked. Unsurprisingly so - the Duke was said to be a suspicious, careful man.

She reached for her belt again, the gloved tips of her fingers tugging the picklock from it. She wound the mechanism tight with a few efficient motions, then stuck it into the keyhole. The small apparatus started to work, the hectic clicking of gears rang louder in the darkness than the sound truly was.

Clickity clack.

The lock turned with a satisfying sound, the mechanical picklock stilled. She stored it back where it belonged. Her breathing evened. The adrenaline flooded her system. Some people got loud when it hit. Charlotte turned alert. Her senses sharpened almost painfully.

Sight.

Sound.

Smell.

Intensified to a point it almost hurt.

But the manor lay quiet. Lord and Lady Worthington attended a ball. No servant would dare approach the upper floor on their own. She was safe. Her feet carried her down the spacious corridor.

Every second chandelier was lit, bathing the corridor in a dim light. Convenient for the chambermaids and servants upon the Worthingtons’ return. Generations of Dukes, their sons and their wives watched her very steps, their faces lining the walls in solemn silence. Marble busts occupied alcoves. She passed a grandfather clock, the pendulum swinging with relentless precision even at this hour. Not just a corridor - it was a walk curated to remind visitors exactly whose house they had entered.

Charlotte didn’t linger. She moved straight toward m’Lord’s gentlemen’s room. The one reserved only for his closest friends and worst enemies. The room to impress the wealthy and powerful. The picklock was back in her fingers within seconds. Her heartbeat slowed as she patiently waited for the second click. Her hands were steady when she turned the knob and let herself in.

She pulled the goggles from her top hat and put them on. A couple of gentle twists and another set of reliable gears started turning, the darkness gradually giving way to the faded greys the night-vision mechanism provided her with.

The room emerged piece by piece, the greys distinguishing themselves from each other gradually.

Polished cabinet fronts. Glass display cases. The pale outlines of marble figures standing guard atop shelves. Nothing in this room was arranged by chance. Instead, every surface seemed chosen to attract attention.

The Duke collected many things.

Most of all, he collected witnesses to his wealth.

Her gaze quickly slid across the room. The exquisite paintings. A Turner. A Sisley. She wasn’t looking for any of these. The miniatures - tastefully decorated, each single one placed for maximum admiration. The Pigalle was exhibited on a low table right beside the comfortable armchair.

Her fingers reverently traced the artwork before her hand closed around the base. Barely a foot in height, the statue still was remarkably light.

It was the right piece.

Charlotte’s breath hitched once. She forced the relief down. No time for that now. Practice took over when she stored the piece in the hidden pocket inside her skirts, a soothing weight against her thigh when she moved fast.

She slid a small item into place where the Pigalle had stood before, and then she was gone again.

She took the same way back. Each door she had opened was locked again. The gentlemen’s room. She was almost back at m’Lord’s study, that she had the Manor entered through when she heard the rhythmic thud of feet climbing the stairs.

Charlotte froze, assessing the sound. Professional hurry — not alert. Light steps. A chambermaid, perhaps a candle boy. She crossed the distance to the door she knew she had left open. She pulled it close behind her gently, the faint sound of the lock drowned in the echo of heel against stone.

She climbed out of the window, a mischievous smile playing around her lips.

She left it as it was, half opened, the wind playing with the curtains inside, and climbed toward the balcony to her left. Toes and fingers found every crack, every small unevenness in the masonry. It wasn’t even a challenge.

Her fingers moved from memory as much as touch. They found the worn seam between stones. The shallow depression carved by decades of rain. The rough edge of a decorative flourish.

The wall spoke its own language, conveying its secrets in the whisper of glove against brick.

Three heartbeats later she reached the balustrade.

She sat down on it, her naked feet dangling in the air. She reached for another pouch hidden in the layers of fabric of her clothes. Her shoes came back on.

She stood up, balancing on the stone.

One touch against the butterfly-shaped brooch at her chest, and the wings contained in what had looked like a backpack spread.

Leonardo da Vinci’s invention transformed. The brilliance of the Maestro refined by the small, nimble fingers of Le Forgeron.

Brass arms unfolded from her back with a rapid succession of clicks and snaps. Hinges locked into place, followed by the familiar whirr of tensioned cables pulled taut. With a sound like an exhale, the durable fabric stretched between the framework until the wings stood fully formed against the night sky.

Charlotte jumped. The mechanism came alive. Air rushed beneath the wings, the frame shuddered once. Then the familiar pressure caught her.

The manor dropped away beneath her feet. She glided and the world turned to speed. Gas lamps became distant stars scattered across the sleeping city. Wind roared in her ears. For the first time she allowed the adrenaline to wash through her veins in sheer, unadulterated joy. The frosty wind caused her eyes to water, tears streaking down her cheeks. She didn’t care.

This was freedom.

She landed a couple hundred yards away, somewhere in the deserted gardens. Moments later the presence of La Pique Dame at Worthington Manor was nothing but a memory. A bad dream. A riddle to solve.

Charlotte’s lips curved into a smile, mirth briefly sparkling in her eyes. “Did you miss me yet, Jonathan?” she murmured, then stilled when she returned to the streets.