Tinsel and Treachery

My breath plumed in the cold, thin air, each exhale a small, fleeting cloud against the oppressive glow of Mrs. Henderson's prize-winning outdoor display. Rudolph’s red nose pulsed a sickly beat from the lawn. It was almost eight. Prime-time for forced merriment. My phone buzzed, a quick, almost imperceptible vibrate in my pocket. No text. Just the timer I’d set. One hour, start to finish. In, out, gone.

The back door, a relic painted a flaking pea-green, was exactly as described: 'Unlocked. Because Gerry thinks it's charming.' Charming. Right. Gerry, my Uncle Gerry, who believed in leaving doors ajar for the spirit of Christmas, or possibly for opportunistic raccoons. I pushed it gently, a soft groan of old wood, and slipped into the utility room. The smell of damp dog and something vaguely citrus-chemical hit me first. I paused, listening. A distant, muffled burst of laughter from the main hall. Carol-singing, off-key, drifted from further in. Good. Distraction.

This was my third Christmas heist, if you could even call them that. The first was a ridiculously ornate jewellery box from my grandmother's attic, which turned out to be empty. The second, a set of rare first-edition comics from a collector who’d 'forgotten' he’d promised them to a rival. Each time, the targets were people I knew, people I was related to. It felt less like espionage and more like highly organised petty larceny, with emotional baggage thrown in for free.

Aunt Sylvie’s house was a labyrinth of overstuffed furniture and questionable interior design choices, even when fully lit. Tonight, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of a few strategically placed lamps, it was a gaudy trap. The 'target' was in the drawing-room, apparently. Specifically, 'the third ceramic angel from the left, on the mantelpiece, by the slightly singed garland.' The specificity was always appreciated. It meant fewer chances of grabbing the wrong family heirloom and accidentally detonating an antique tea cosy.

I moved through the dimly lit hallway, past a towering, artificial tree that shed plastic needles like a nervous porcupine. A tiny bell, strung from a garland, jingled as I brushed past it. I froze, breath held. Nothing. Just the continued off-key carols and Aunt Sylvie’s piercing laugh, cutting through the general din like a dull chainsaw. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This was ridiculous. I was fourteen, not James Bond. Though, James Bond probably didn't have to worry about stepping on a sleeping cat.

The drawing-room. Or rather, the 'parlour' as Aunt Sylvie insisted on calling it. The mantelpiece was a chaotic landscape of festive clutter: dried orange slices, tarnished silver bells, a tiny, chipped Santa Claus, and the ceramic angels. Three of them, just as described. They were kitschy, painted with overly rosy cheeks and impossibly blonde hair. The third one, indeed, had a small, almost invisible crack running down its wing.

The Cracked Wing

I reached out, my fingers brushing against the cold porcelain. It felt cheaper than it looked, which was saying something. The instructions had been clear: 'Twist the head clockwise, three full turns.' I hesitated. My hands felt clumsy, oversized. What if I broke it? What if it *wasn't* just ceramic? My contact, 'The Collector', wasn't known for his sense of humour when things went wrong. He preferred precision.

My thumb found the angel's head. It was stiff, fused to the body with years of dust and disuse. I applied gentle pressure, then a little more. It gave with a faint *click* that was far too loud in the silent room. One turn. Two. The third turn was harder, like winding a stubborn clock. With a soft *pop*, the head separated, revealing a small, hollow cavity. Inside, nestled on a scrap of velvet, was a tarnished silver locket. Not a microchip, not a USB stick. A locket. This was always the way. Mundane objects concealing profoundly inconvenient secrets.

I retrieved the locket, my fingers fumbling with the tiny clasp. It felt cold, oddly heavy. Something about it radiated a sense of age, of history. My job was just to retrieve it, not to ask questions. But the Collector's interest in something so seemingly innocuous, so utterly *un-techy*, prickled at the back of my neck. He usually dealt in data, not heirlooms.

Just as I pocketed the locket, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then, a sudden, all-encompassing darkness. The carols cut out mid-note, replaced by a collective gasp from the partygoers. A few nervous chuckles, then a burst of panicked shouts. "Power cut!" someone yelled. "Again? Gerry, did you plug in the entire street?"

Chaos erupted. This was bad. Really bad. No one could see, but that also meant no one could see *me*. A blessing and a curse. I fumbled for my phone, but the screen's sudden glow felt like a lighthouse beam in the sudden void. I killed it. My eyes, adjusting rapidly, began to make out vague shapes: the looming Christmas tree, the ghostly outlines of furniture.

I heard a crash from the kitchen. Aunt Sylvie’s high-pitched shriek. Then, closer, from the hallway, a soft scraping sound. Not Gerry tripping over his own feet. Not Aunt Sylvie dropping another tray of vol-au-vents. This sound was deliberate. Controlled. Like someone was feeling their way along the wall, heading straight for the drawing-room. Heading straight for *me*.

My heart lurched. I wasn't alone in the dark. And whoever it was, they hadn't come for the turkey.

I pressed myself flat against the wall, behind a heavy velvet curtain, my hand instinctively going to the locket in my pocket. The scrape grew louder, closer. A heavy bootfall echoed on the wooden floorboards in the hall, then another. My breath hitched. Someone was coming for what I had, and they sounded like they meant business. My fingers brushed against the ceramic angel's hollow head, still sitting innocently on the mantelpiece. The door to the drawing-room slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to creak open.