Glitter and Gold (The Canary Club Novels Book 1) by Ficklin Sherry D

Author:Ficklin, Sherry D. [Ficklin, Sherry D.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: YA Historical Fiction
Publisher: Crimson Tree Publishing
Published: 2017-03-23T04:00:00+00:00

It’s almost eight o’clock when we finally arrive at the city register office. They closed a few hours earlier, and most of the block is empty. The occasional car rushes past, not bothering to even slow down as we stand on the sidewalk across the street, staring at the office. We spent the day chatting with a fella named Richard who just happened to work at the city office. It took her exactly three phone calls to her father’s network of people to find just the man we were looking for. As it turned out, he’s one of her many doting fans and was only too happy to tell us all about where they keep those sorts of records, and what kind of security to expect. He never saw me pick his pocket for the door key while Masie smiled and bat her eyelashes, laughing at his horrible jokes. When we left him, whiskey sodden and nearly unconscious despite the early hour, she’d ordered one of the bartenders to leave him in a booth till we returned, his dinner and drinks on the house.

Now it’s finally dark and I shiver under my long black coat. We’d opted for a little less drama in the wardrobe tonight, better to avoid unnecessary attention.

“You think this will work?” Masie asks, sweeping a glance up and down the road to check for stragglers.

I fidget, stomping my feet against the chill running up my stockings. “Of course. We just gotta break in, steal the original, and replace it with the forgery. No problem.”

“The last time you said no problem, we spent the night in a jail cell,” she says, her tone playful.

“Thanks for reminding me, as if I could forget. I ruined my best glad rags trying to get over that fence.”

“I never did find that shoe,” she complains, elbowing me gently.

“This will work,” I repeat, as if saying I can will it to be true. “It has to.”

With that, we scurry across the road, rounding the building to the back door leading to a long alley. There’s one streetlamp in the distance and it’s hard to see. Masie does her best to block me from view of any people or cars that might pass by as I slide the stolen key into the lock. The door falls open and I quickly pull her inside, closing it with a gentle click.

Luckily there’s no guard on duty, as Richard explained, who would want to steal a bunch of boring paperwork? I’d nearly choked on my gin and tonic.

“Here,” Masie calls out as we grope our way through the darkness. Passing around the front desk we make our way to the door to the storage room. Once we are inside, she hits the light button and rows and rows of box-covered shelves are illuminated. Our shoes click through the stale air as we waste no time, each choosing an aisle to search.

“What’s the year again?” she calls.

“1909,” I call back. Thankfully the boxes are labeled and well organized and I quickly spot the date on the nearest one.

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