It is true that Mouse was a girl. But only a few knew that. Most took her for a boy. And when Mouse looked in a mirror, sometimes she even believed it herself.
It is also true that she was a thief.
As though harried by a thousand devils, she ran through the corridors of the venerable Grand Hotel Aurora. The man that followed her was hard on her heels. Not a good day for a hotel-room thief. Not even when she committed her theft with such great dexterity as Mouse.
The upper floor of the Hotel Aurora was reserved for special guests. At the front facing the boulevard, the famous Nevski Prospect, lay the splendid Czar’s Suite; a single night there cost more than Petersburg’s simple citizens earned in a year.
Mouse rushed swiftly under the silver candle holders that emitted electric light. The spittoons in the corners were of the finest porcelain. Heavy commodes of mahogany stood against the walls of the corridor. Lacy doilies fluttered in the backdraft as Mouse was chased past them.
Sometimes she looked over her shoulder to see whether her pursuer had caught up to her yet. But she still held on to her head start. It was not the first time that she had escaped him.
Mouse wore a page’s uniform that was patched in many places, if not so many that one of the highly esteemed guests would notice at the first glance. Pants and jacket were of violet velvet, set with gleaming buckles and even shoulder loops sewn of golden carpet fringe. Her patent shoes were immaculately cleaned – because that was Mouse’s task here in the Hotel Aurora: to collect the shoes from the doors of all the guests at night, bring them into the celler, there to polish them bright and distribute them in front of the rooms before dawn. Without switching a single pair, you understand.
That took talent, claimed Kukushka, the dancing partner in the ballroom. That took absolutely nothing, Mouse said. Only the willingness to spend the night on your feet and to sleep during the day. And not even that was an achievement, when one had no other choice.
The footsteps behind Mouse grew louder.
Was there a particular reason why, after all these years, she was about to be caught? That evening she had cleaned her plate of the guests’ leftovers, and silently let the teasing of the pages and chambermaids pass over her. “Girl-boy,” they sneered. “There goes the girl-boy, and it stinks like old shoes.”
All this she bore every day. She had done nothing to call blame upon herself, really nothing.
Except perhaps this tiny theft. Not her first by any means, but until now she had always gotten away with it.
She looked back again. The heavily carpeted floor almost entirely swallowed up her pursuer’s footsteps. Mouse took the golden brooch out of the pocket of her uniform and tightly closed her fist around it. The door to the room had been unlocked – that wasn’t her fault, was it? – and the brooch had lain out in the open on a heap of clothing. And thieves were warned of everywhere at that, especially in such bad times. Couldn’t the owner have paid better attention?
No, Mouse was really not at fault here. She had only accepted the invitation to put the thing in her pocket. And what had happened, had happened. Apologies, madam.
It was a question/matter of honor to bring her loot to all the rest in the cellar. Later, anyway. For now she had to get rid of the thing. Namely, a place where no one at all would stick their nose. First of all, away with it, so that none but her could find it. Certainly not the Roundsman, who had been waiting to catch her in the act for ages. No evidence, no theft. No punishment for Mouse.
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