It was easy to say the rich had too much and the rest too little; easy to play the hero of some epic tale, to claim that small thefts were the universe's way of balancing out small unfairnesses. Many a burglar, many a bandit, many a highwaysman or pickpocket had used this as justification for all their bad. Cosmic balance. Justice for the small.
Reese didn't bother.
For Reese, thieving boiled down to the simple fact that he was good at it, and the satisfaction taken from skill. Let his brother tumble for the crowd, let him clown and juggle, let him leap. In contrast, in grey on grey with a scarf wrapped around his face even in the relative warmth of the season, nimble fingertips thrusting through the tips of his gloves, Reese would use his balance differently.
Perch on the windowframe while carefully working the latch with a long, slim pick. Grease the window to keep it from screaming as it swung inward. Disappear through the gap slowly, smoothly, a shadow against the dark silhouette of a supposedly empty house.
He'd been caught. Twice. Caught by the family, back early from their summer home, and escaped out the back window. Caught by the husband, there with his mistress, and vanished into a broom closet where he went [strangely] overlooked for three hours until he was able to slip away. The result was that he was quiet even alone, soft-soled shoes whispering against the foreign rugs as he stepped down into a silent bedroom.
This was quick work. Years on the job meant he knew the best hiding places, was able to easily poke through jewelry and pick out choice pieces, those that would sell. It meant he ignored everything too heavy to carry, worked his way from the top to the bottom, and paused in the study to give Lord Whoever-this-was's paperwork a good once-over, to determine he was depressingly clean, and to tuck it all into his carry bag. Routine. So comfortable, at this point, that it was almost boring. Near-silent movements toward the window he'd come in, focus wavering as the job was done -- and he drew to a halt all at once, staring blankly at the open window.
He had closed it. It was simple common sense to close the window behind, just enough to appear normal to the street below, should anyone pass. Enough that it wouldn't cause any concern, wouldn't catch eyes. And here, tonight, it stood most of the way open, even with the winds stilled to the quietest of nights.
Someone else had come in behind him.
It was a thought that brought up panic, swelling panic, pounding heart and frantic eyes. Panic, in turn, made him stupid, turning in a rush with fingers dipping beneath his jacket in search of the long knife he kept mostly for show.
The first step resulted in an ear-piercing howl, a stumble, falling with enough force to shake lamps on their tables and paintings on the wall. It knocked the breath out of Reese and left him flat, staring blankly up at the sky with his heart still beating too hard in chis chest, with stars behind his eyes.
With a fuzzy cheek against his cheek, and luminous yellow eyes meeting his, amusement behind the beast's expression -- or so he thought. Rough tongue against his cheek and a bouncing step up onto his chest.
There was movement, in the distance. A neighbor, perhaps, getting up to explore the noise. He would have to get moving, and moving quickly, if he wanted to escape unseen. And he would. In one moment, he would get up, shaky, sore, and grab the grimalkin around the middle. She would protest, with a lower growl and yowl, and then would go limp, trusting him to take care. Out the window and back the way he'd come, limping and stumbling with a new problem in tow...
