The estate was dark, save for the landscape lighting illuminating the brick facade.

I pulled my jacket down from the wall and put it back on.

I kept close to the hedge line, moving toward the east wing.

The grass was wet, soaking through the canvas of my boots.

I reached the edge of the terrace.

The French doors of the library were thirty feet away.

I could see the dark wood of the bookshelves through the glass.

I crouched behind a marble statue of a weeping angel.

A shadow moved inside the house.

I froze.

A guard walked past the library window, a flashlight beam bouncing off the floor.

He didn’t look outside.

He kept walking toward the main hallway.

I waited another minute until his footsteps faded completely.

I slipped out from behind the statue and ran to the French doors.

I checked the lock.

It was a standard brass latch, old but sturdy.

I took out a small tension wrench and a rake pick from my pocket.

It took me thirty seconds of quiet manipulation before the lock gave a soft click.