Free The Thieves of Darkness by Richard Doetsch Page A

small apartment, the meager furnishings. The three hearts in the room were breaking. “You have no one else? Where is your father?”
    KC and Cindy looked at each other. “He’s dead,” Cindy whispered in shame.
    “Please don’t take her from me,” KC whispered. “I’m all she has.”
    “I don’t want to leave you alone, child.”
    KC held tight to Cindy. “We’re not alone.”
    The woman packed up her bag and stood; she took a deep breath and looked at KC with sympathetic eyes. “Let me see if I can work something out.”
    KC stood and walked the woman to the door, closing it behind her. She turned back to her sister and held her tight, their tears merging. No one would separate them. No one would take Cindy away from her.
    But as KC stood there, the fear began to creep in. She had no skills, she, too, was still a child, there were no means of support, her words to the woman a desperate, naive plea to keep both of their hearts from further damage. For as much as Cindy needed KC, KC needed Cindy. She loved her sister. Though she was six years her junior, they shared a bond, like identical twins. KC resolved she would find a way. She would put herself aside and be there for her sister.
    That was the last time she cried.
    T HE FOLLOWING NIGHT KC was back in the house on Trafalgar Square. This time she knew better. She grabbed the pillowcase from the closet, still filled with valuables. She once again looked at the painting by Monet upon the wall; she looked at the two sisters holding hands. She went to the kitchen, returned with a knife, and cut it from its frame. She rolled it up, tucked it into the bag, and slipped out the back door.
    She went to the pawnshop on Piccadilly. Old Man Rist stood hunched behind the counter, an icon of the run-down neighborhood. She knew him from church, or rather he knew her mother.
    “I’m sorry about your loss, child,” the man said, his ancient, wrinkled face sincere with emotion.
    KC nodded and placed a silver goblet on the counter.
    He looked at her with sad, troubled eyes.
    “It was my mother’s. My sister and I, we need the money.”
    Rist really did know KC’s mother, he knew her well, and he knew that she never had the means to possess such an item. As he looked at the goblet and up into KC’s eyes, it broke his heart, for he knew what KC was doing. He gave her a thousand pounds for it, almost its real worth. He couldn’t swindle a motherless child.
    And so it went for the next three months. Whenever they needed money for food or rent, KC would sell Mr. Rist a piece from the Trafalgar house pillowcase. But throughout that time not once did she consider selling the painting. She hung it on the wall of Cindy’s room, above the bed, as a reminder that they were family, they were the sisters who would never stop holding hands.
    KC cared for Cindy as if she weren’t her sister but her daughter. KC grew up overnight; helping Cindy with her homework, cooking for her, cleaning for her. They had each other and neither would let the other come to harm.
    But after three months the bag was empty; it was all gone but for a single piece. KC feared their illusion of security was over. There was nothing left to sell. KC went back to the house on Trafalgar, but it was empty, cleaned out and for sale.
    And the panic surged through her again. KC needed money and she needed it by week’s end. She sat every night staring at the painting that hung over her sister’s bed, thinking of its worth, but she had made a promise. She feared if the painting was sold, their future would be over.
    KC walked down to Piccadilly and sold the last piece, the man’s watch, to Mr. Rist. Three thousand pounds. Only enough for one more month.
    And as she walked from the door, he was standing there. He was shorter than she was: He stood about five-seven, and was a wisp of a man. His hair was jet black, perfectly groomed, his lightly tanned skin accentuated pale, blue eyes. And though his face was