Out of your element. It’s how you felt walking up to the gilded gates of the manor holding the ball Angelo Bronte invited Dutch and his more trusted crew to. Arthur felt the same, dressed in a suit he’d never worn before, the fabric a touch too tight, unworn and unwrinkled. Pristine in a way neither of you are used to after growing up thieving for food.

You feel bare in the expensive cloth Dutch forced you into. Good impressions, fake appearances; that’s all this ball is made up of. Even Dutch’s little group of outlaws with their gilded facades, they’re just street rats wearing fine fabric and shiny shoes. It felt wrong. False in a way that feels unnatural even to a couple of cowpokes who used to deceive for scraps of food or coin.

But we’re here for intel, Dutch claims. And since he and Bronte are yet to be on bad terms, the group of you are scattering about in pairs to collect information where you can. Hosea and Bill split off, Dutch is chatting with a couple of locals, and you and Arthur are tailing a servant who mentioned none other than Leviticus Cornwall.

It seems every goddamn town has whispers of the men who hate Dutch and his gang. Whispers that hang precariously overhead like nooses. O’Drsicoll, Cornwall, the Grays, the Braithwaites. It seems everyone who happens to be a somebody wants to see Dutch and his crew hang. Everyone except for Bronte, for the time being.

So now Arthur’s walking just slightly ahead, hugging the wall and waiting at the corner as the servant reprimands a housemaid. Your eyes narrow as he raises his hand, as if to strike her. She flinches in a brace, too, but he doesn’t follow through, the threat good enough to have her obediently scurrying.

Arthur shoots you a look, reminding you to keep your distance with him. We can’t mess this up—can’t be caught, his blue eyes say. You nod mutely, forcing out a slow sigh as the servant moves forward again. Once more, the two of you trail him, following him upstairs to a small office.

The two of you are about to sneak in when he leaves, but another house worker rounds the corner. “Shit,” Arthur curses as he tenses and clenches his fists, ready to fight since the two of you are suspiciously close to confidential information. You snap to attention, eyes flicking quickly to Arthur’s. Dutch said no violence. We can’t get caught like this, you think.