“I'm sure it's the same thing you are, gorgeous.”

If Widdershins had rolled her eyes any harder, she'd probably have sprained something. “Enlighten me.”

“Well…”

“Uh, Simon?” This from a tall, broad-shouldered thug of a thief whose name was-actually, Widdershins couldn't for the life of her remember what his name was, and would have to have been unconscious or dead to have cared any less. “What we're doing right now is standing around waiting to get nabbed.”

“You're right. Go on ahead, guys. Stick with the plan; I'll catch up.”

“Wait!” Widdershins hissed, trying to spin to face all of them at once and making herself vaguely dizzy for her trouble. “Don't…” But they were already gone. “Oh, figs.”

She thought briefly of chasing after them, but Squirrel was still here, eager to talk-and oblivious to how uneager she was to listen to him-and besides, what would she do if she caught them, anyway?

“You were saying?” she prompted, her voice chilly as a snowman's backside.

“Well, I mean, it's obvious, right?” He grinned wide, eager to impress. “Gods forbid any of the ‘aristo-brats’ be reminded of just what shitty shape Davillon's in, so you know all their parties have to be all fancy. This is the first party Rittier's thrown since the archbishop was almost killed here last year, so it's gotta be even fancier, right? This is probably one of the biggest accumulations of wealth the city's seen in months, and at this time of night, most the guests are gone and everyone's tired, so…” He shrugged, palms spread wide. “Best time and place for guys like us. You obviously had the same idea, right? So work with us. Plenty to go around.”

“This,” Widdershins growled through a cage of teeth, “Was. My. Caper!”