The Diamond Thief by Sharon Gosling

ribbon of night sky, only just visible between the roofs over her head. It was late, and she was suddenly deathly tired. Around her, sounds were muted – there was only the odd burst of music rising through the open door of an all-night public house, and occasionally the hollow laughter of a drunken woman. She looked around the little alcove she had found and realized it was probably as safe a place as she would find to sleep tonight.
    Wrapping her cloak more firmly around herself, Rémy sank to the ground and curled up with her head resting on her knees, the drawstring handle of her bag looped around one wrist. The wall was damp and uncomfortable against her back, and the cold bit at her despite Claudette’s cloak. But eventually she slept, her dreams unhappy.
    She was roused some time later by a slight tickle. It felt as if someone were brushing a feather against her arm. Her immediate thought was rats, and she shifted slightly, unafraid and too deeply asleep to stir properly. The feeling went away for a few minutes, and then came back with a vengeance. It wasn’t a tickle, it was something tugging, something…
    Rémy snapped awake properly as the drawstring of her bag gave beneath the knife sawing at it. She was on her feet in a second, but it was too late. The thief – a small, scrawny boy – had fled, his prize held tight in his arms.
    “Hey!” she shouted at the cutpurse as he vanished down the alley. “Stop! You little –”
    Rémy gave chase, dashing out into the grey, weak light of morning. It had begun to rain again. Icy drips of water slid down Rémy’s neck and she pulled the hood of her cloak up around her ears.
    Rounding the corner after the boy, she found herself in a busier street. There were knots of people everywhere, huddled, crouching in corners or muttering together beside the crumbling brick walls. Pungent smoke – from the houses of those lucky enough to have a few lumps of coal, as well as from decrepit old pipes – hung in wraiths around their heads. The poisonous air was full of the sound of coughs and wails, shouts and the occasional scream, always cut short. Children skittered past her legs, as fast as rats and just as scrawny. The place reeked of hunger and decay, and there was desperation everywhere. Rémy knew poverty from France. It was a fearful disease and there was no cure, not in streets as poor as these.
    She dodged and wove through the throngs of people, her boots echoing along the narrow alley walls. No one took any notice of her cries, or even turned to look at the fleeing boy, clutching her bag as his bony legs carried him along. He kept looking over his shoulder to see if Rémy had given up yet, but she was determined and, despite Gustave’s tight-fistedness, still better fed than an East End street urchin. Besides, the bag and its contents were now all she had in the world. She wasn’t going to let them go without a fight.
    The thief ducked into an even narrower alley, and then immediately darted right, into another so narrow that two men would struggle to walk abreast. Rémy was quick, though, and followed easily. She could see that the boy was tiring, the distance between them lessening with every step.
    “I’m not going to give up,” she shouted after him. “So you might as well drop the bag!”
    The boy didn’t answer. He disappeared from sight, instead. Rémy skidded to a stop where she’d last seen him, looking around, perplexed. Then, over the noise of rain and despair, she heard a faint metal clang. Looking up, she saw him shimmying up an old, rusting pipe, heading for the rooftops.
    Rémy didn’t hesitate. The pipe was fragile but she was quick and nimble, and the walls were so close together that she knew she could easily brace herself if necessary. She was quieter than the boy, too, so when she appeared on the roof beside him, he started.
    “Not so fast,” she snapped, as the wheezing child tried to scramble away. She pinned him by the shoulder,