The night before…
“Ya’ get in, ya’ get out. It’s that simple, darlin’.”
Papa fixes me with his wide smile, the one that is meant to convey, “Everything is going to bejust fine.”
Traditionally, when I see this grin, I know the job is going to be realshan,terrible. “I’m glad ya’ have such a strong faith in my skills.”
Gavin, my little brother, chokes on his lager, trying not to laugh mid-swallow.
“Yeah, you keep laughing, ya’ bampot,” I say, nearly throwing myself across the table to smack Gavin on the back of the head, “what are you doing tomorrow night while I’m breathing in the gluttonous fumes of the MacTavish men?”
“No smackin’ each other at the dinner table!” Papa roars.
“Aye, listen to your Chieftain!” Gavin chimes in.
Doris shakes her head with a sigh as she brings in a platter of roast beef. “An’ here I thought we taught ya’ manners.”
“Sorry, Doris.” We chime in dutifully.
Most head housekeepers don’t speak to the family the way Doris does, but she’s been keeping the Blackwood House running smoothly for much longer than I’ve been alive, so she says what she likes.
We’re all quiet as she serves, no reason to discuss tomorrow’s highly illegal break-in at the MacTavish mansion in front of Doris and her niece Aileen, who is helping serve dinner.
When we’re all home together, Papa always insists we eat in the formal dining room, which is absurdly huge with a table meant to seat twenty. It feels worse, eating in here, at a table that my parents envisioned filled with children. Now my mother’s gone, and my older brother Ewan. Just the three of us are left and I always feel Papa’s sorrow when he looks down the sparsely filled table.
Once we’re alone, I return to the plan. “My cover’s set, I have no worries about getting in. But this is a huge event and you know they’ll have security up the arse of everyone there-”
“No vulgarities, missy!” Papa barks, and that idiot brother of mine starts laughing into his drink again. “Ya’ have the house plan, you can crack a safe faster than any human on this planet. You’ll be unrecognizable. Get in, get the package, get out.” He nods firmly, as if that’s all there is to it.
“You’re right, I know you are,” I sigh, “but this feels off. You taught me to trust my gut, and this is… it doesn’t feel right.”
“We may not have another chance like this again,” Papa says gravely. “I know ya’ don’t like it. But I canna’ chance the son’s leadership to void my agreement with the old bastard. This is the most important job you’ve done for the family.”
The family.
The Legacy of the Blackwoods has ruled my entire life, well before I was old enough to understand what that meant. I’ve never resented the responsibility that it all heaped on my shoulders, but it’s exhausting, a constant reminder that my life is never my own.
“Aye,” I put on a smile for Papa. This last year has been hard on him, the furrows in his forehead are deeper, his ruddy skin seems paler. “I have this.”
The night of the party…
“The MacTavish mansion was built in 1871, with additional wings added over the following century. The main house now totals over twenty thousand square feet.”
I sort rolls into their little baskets while I listen to one of the guides take guests through the portrait hall. “As you can see, portraits from each generation of MacTavish’s have been added to the hall here, some painted by famous artists such as…”
The Blackwood House may not be as old as this monstrosity, but it’s graceful and elegant. And we don’t need to give tours to build up our fundraisers.
“Daisy! Ya’ got the bread sorted? C’mon, we ain’t got all night!” Alasdair, the head server is trying to loom over me, but since we’re the same height, it’s more like snuffling into my neckline and I push one of the baskets into his chest.
“Right here, boss,” I smile sweetly.
Finding the right employee to bribe and take her place tonight was the easiest part of this job. Daisy is off to Canada to live her best life with a fistful of Blackwood cash, and I’m in her black pants and white shirt - and heavy makeup, a wig, and a couple of discreet prosthetics - shuffling bread baskets and the like until the grand speeches begin after dinner.
There are dozens of rich arseholes here tonight and unfortunately, my family runs in the same circles. However, no one’s going to recognize me. I’ve found that servers are invisible. The people who clean these arsehole's houses, cook their food, make their coffee… they don’t exist in this rarefied world. It makes slipping in and out of a job so much easier.
“Forbes Magazine just listed the family as the third wealthiest in Scotland,” a woman murmurs as I place her plate of salmon with sea leeks, potato beignets, and a rosemary and lemonvelouté. I’m always too nervous to eat before a job and my stomach rumbles loud enough that the woman looks up in irritation.
“Pardon, ma’am,” I whisper humbly.
