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CHAPTER FIVE; only one mistake
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THE FIRST TIME SHE PICKED A LOCK, and heard the all-telling and satisfying click, was etched into her mind, so vivid it was as if it had happened yesterday—it hadn't; she had been around four and not living in Ketterdam. She didn't have many memories from her childhood, not like this one. Ace was adamant it'd stuck to her head for two reasons:
The first: she'd been grounded that day after failing her father's agility test—she'd have to climb a palm tree with stiff leather shoes and a slightly weighted vest. Looking back, she realized that the vest was nothing more than a heavily sequined shawl her mother had wrapped around her small body.
Ace had fallen off the palm tree, hitting the beach's soft sand in front of their house in the Southern Colonies. Her reflex was to cry, a sob left her lips muffled by the rumbling of the sea, and, without a second to spare, her father had whisked her up, his lips set into a frown as he narrowed his eyes at her as if daring her to cry. At the young age of four, Ace did dare, and she broke into sobs—never again.
Her father held her as she wept, huddled in his arms as he walked back to the house but then put her in her room and crouched down to her height, grabbing her little shoulders firmly.
"Weep as you might, my little Ace, still forget not that it's useless. You fail. You try again. Crying won't help anyone, not even the Saints will pity your tears." With those words, he stood up, holding the key to her room, and gestured towards the lockpicks he had given her as soon as she was able to hold them—they lay on top of a colorful chest where she kept her toys.
"One failure per day, my little Ace, I won't tolerate more," he spoke again, "If you want dinner, find a way out of this room. And, mia Bela Miseria, your mother will miss you if you're not at the table."
And he'd left and locked her inside, leaving her four-year-old self staring at the door as if willing it to open. She hadn't cried another time, yet her bottom lip quivered as she snatched the lockpicks and got to work, standing on a stack of pillows to reach the lock. After half an hour of hassling with the lock, she heard the click.
The second reason why she remembered that day so freshly, was her mother. A Saint if Ace ever saw one. So beyond selfless, she managed to fall in love with a selfish thief, give her his heart, and thankfully be able to grasp his in return, showing him how to be selfless—with his family at least.
Her mother had tucked her safely in bed, kissing the top of her head, and stashed the lockpicks away in the chest—out of sight, out of nightmares. Then she'd crawled into Ace's little bed and held her close. "Mia Bela Miseria," she'd whispered as Ace closed her eyes and fought hard for sleep to come, "the Saints wouldn't pity your tears. They'd hold you as you wept."
