Liam Perrin

“It says gloomwraiths can only be killed with a mumbling axe by one who has never told a lie.”

“Got it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never told a lie?”

“Never.”

“Are you lying now?”

“No.”

She paused. “You have a mumbling axe?”

“No.”

“Mumbling sword?”

He shook his head. “Wouldn’t work.”

“How about an articulate axe? We could teach it.”

“That might work. The tangled king has one, but he won’t hear me.”

“Nonsense.”

“No, I mean he literally won’t hear me. He can’t hear the truth.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“You’ll lie to the tangled king?”

“No problem.”

He frowned. “…Did you eat my prince-bisket?”

“Absolutely not.”

“There are crumbs on your-”

“Did you eat my cryspes?”

He looked away.

“A lie of omission is still a lie.”

“But it’s a lie you don’t tell. I didn’t say I’ve never not told a lie.”

She squinted. “Let’s go.”

“Wilkes designed that lock. Yer not gonna pick it.”

“Don’t need to.” She jimmied a drawer, reached in, then held her prize aloft. “Got the key.”

“But it’s a detector lock. Guards check it every round. We won’t get off the grounds afore they loose the hounds.”

She pointed at the lock. “What’s the dial say?”

“Six.”

“And what’s that mean?”

“It’s been open six times.”

She shook her head. She unlocked the safe, opened it, pocketed the velvet bag, and closed it again.

“Whussit say now?”

“Seven. S’been open seven times.”

“Nah,” she said. “It’s been unlocked seven times.”

She turned the key back and forth, over and over, unlocking and re-locking. The dial crossed ninety-nine, hit zero, and climbed again.

She grinned and pointed.

“Six,” he said squinting. “Why, it’s only been unlocked,” he said, “six times.”

She winked, and they slipped noiselessly out the window.