Roland simply wasn’t built for stealth. Three times now he had stumbled over a crate or nearly upended one of the small casks in Cain’s storage area, all the while attempting to keep the lantern mostly shuttered. Each time he stopped and held his breath, dreading the footfall of the house’s owner discovering his late night entry.

Hearing only silence except for the chirping of crickets and the soft whinny of a horse next door, Roland finally found the object of his search. The chain-wrapped strongbox was in the corner, draped with heavy cloth.

He removed the silver key from his pocket and began tugging on the chains to gain access to the heavy lock. So engrossed was he in the task, he neglected to muffle the noise.

“What are you doing here?” asked Cain gruffly from the now open door, light streaming in from a lantern in the other room.

“Uhh,” Roland stammered.

Cain leaned in closer and saw the key in Roland’s hand.

“Oh,” he said. “You too, huh? Don’t expect to get back this way.”

He closed the door.