The Dream Thief by Shana Abe Page A

caught the sound of glass striking
wood—he had knocked over their carafe of wine. The matron leapt up, saving her
skirts with both hands; the younger women followed more slowly. Conversation
ceased. Everyone in the dining room turned to observe the commotion. In the
echoing hush she heard Zane’s urgent apologies in French, and the waiters converging,
and the matron chattering words too swift to understand. But Lia could see the
woman’s profile now as she took two steps toward Zane, the anger etched around
her mouth—erased the instant he lifted from his bow and she got a better look
at his face.
    The matron paused, then summoned
a small, sour smile. She clucked at the two girls, drawing them nearer while
the liveried waiters swarmed like green-coated bees around the table. In the
midst of them all, Zane bowed again, bringing the older woman’s hand to his
lips.
    Lia saw something new enter her
expression. She saw her quick, darting glance to the younger two, a silent
message exchanged over his bent head.
    The dishes were cleared, the
soiled cloth removed. Fresh bleached linen was whipped across the table, more
wine was being poured—Zane very openly pressed a gold coin into the hand of the maître d ’hôtel —and then he was bowing a third time, clearly preparing
to back away. When he came up again, the older woman touched her hand to his
arm and spoke. With his back to Lia, Zane leaned in close and turned his mouth
to her ear.
    What Lia saw best then was the
blue-veined hand upon his sleeve. How the matron’s fingers abruptly clenched,
hard enough to pull the wool into puckers. How she let go of him very quickly
as if repelled, her fingers spread.
    Zane straightened. He nodded to
the other two and walked on to the exit without looking back.
    The woman turned her gaze slowly
around the room. Lia dropped her chin and studied what was left of the fish,
silently counting to ten before raising her eyes again.
    No one was looking at her. The
matron had gathered up her charges and was hastening them out of the chamber,
their shawls trailing, their wineglasses still brimming—much to the dismay of
the country squires.
    Five minutes later, Zane
returned. There was no hitch to his gait now; he moved as smoothly as a cat
through the staggered tables.
    “Dessert?” he inquired, flicking
the skirts of his coat as he resumed his seat.
    “What did you say to her?”
    “Only that she’d do better
elsewhere.” He lifted a hand for a waiter. “With the dowagers, for example, at
the table by the fire. Those appear to be real pearls at their throats.”
    Lia’s jaw dropped. “You sent them
to rob someone else instead?”
    “Well, you could hardly expect me
to warn her off without sweetening the deal. She looked frail enough, but she
was a tough old mare, believe me. I think she bruised my arm.”
    Waiters appeared, silent and
bowing, taking away the fish and cheese, bringing mints and hot coffee and a
tray full of petite sugared cakes. Lia waited until they retreated out of
range.
    “How could you do such a thing?”
    “Very
easily. I can’t imagine why anyone would wear pearls in this rustic backwater
of a town unless they craved the attention.”
    “Zane,”
she hissed.
    “Dearest wife, didn’t you notice
the foursome of men at the side door? Yes, go ahead and look. They’re guarding
the dowagers, and their pearls. I noted them when we first arrived; we were all
in the lobby together. There’s not a chance in Hades our little band of
pickpockets will step anywhere near those women tonight, nor any other night.
Trust me.”
    He picked up one of the
pastel-sugared cakes, tapping it until the grains sifted down onto his plate.
    “So. Are they?”
    “Are they what?”
    “Real pearls,” he said. “I’d
wager my soul you can tell.”
    She didn’t answer. His voice grew
gentler, more insistent.
    “Are they, Amalia?”
    She closed her eyes. The scent of
the coffee was a sudden heat in her head.
    “Yes,” she