By the time night arrived, Flint had been in and out of consciousness a few times, and to Vesper's immense relief, had held a lucid conversation with her, enough that she'd been able to catch him up on what had happened. It seemed his head injury hadn't scrambled his brains.

As for whether the snake bite on his leg would have any long-term effects, that was to be seen. He was certainly going to be recovering for the next week, minimum. She and Morgana would be doing their next dungeon runs by themselves.

None of that mattered until Vesper could ensure they were safe. Archibald hadn't turned them in right away, but there was no guarantee that would hold. All Vesper had was a strong suspicion that the man had debts of his own, or some other need for money—over and above a regular person.

With luck, this trip would confirm those suspicions. Or even find some other useful bit of information. Blackmail, perhaps? That might be hoping for too much.

So. Breaking into the apothecary's shop. Once a [Thief], always a [Thief].

When it came to crime for the purpose of profit, Vesper preferred pickpocketing. Easy to get away if something went wrong—and it usually didn't, not for someone of Vesper's skill. Only people good at what they did received a class, after all, so Vesper more than knew her way around the art of sneaking, misdirection, and making good use of dexterous fingers.

Along with the safety of pickpocketing, she liked it because it was less personal. She felt better about it. Could pick her marks—go for the ones being an asshole to vendors, or the ones obviously doing well for themselves.

Breaking into a person's home felt…worse. Even if it had been as safe and consistent as pickpocketing, she wouldn't have done it much.

But that wasn't to say she hadn't ever. She knew her way around breaking and entering. Little harder when the goal was to get in and out without a trace, but tricky didn't mean impossible. If there was any talent she had in this world, thieving was it. And the gods agreed with her. She'd gotten a class for it.

She took a roundabout path through Quarrygate, staying on the outskirts. Didn't want to be caught skulking around for obvious reasons. Thankfully, the apothecary was on the edge of town, not out of the way of everything, but in a better position to raid than most homes. Odds were high Archibald lived in the same shop he peddled his trade, so stealth would be key. Might hear her coming in. Thankfully, [Inconspicuous] would help keep her hidden, moreso than even natural talents could.

First, she scouted the shop. She knew there was a possibility easy entry wouldn't be an option, or even that she might have to give up entirely. Still, Archibald's shop hadn't been particularly secure from what she'd seen. She thought she had good odds of coming in through a window.

The front door was a no-starter, considering the deadbolt. From a distance, she observed the building, watching the windows for light or movement, weighing her options. She'd salvaged a piece of wire and acquired or created some other improvised tools she might need. Wished she had better options, but she would make do.

The cabin was two stories tall. Vesper was operating under the impression that the living space was above, that Archibald resided there, and that it wasn't used for storage or similar.

Front or back door was implausible to break through, which left the windows as the more likely opening, though they were probably secured better than the average house—possibly even magically, though she found that unlikely. Magical security systems were generally reserved for nobility. Archibald might have something, but if he did, it would be applied to the backroom he'd taken her into, to guard the safe where he kept his valuables. Vesper had no interest in that room.

There were two windows on the second floor of the building, one on either side. Vesper suspected those would be her best bet. Nobody secured their second floor windows as well as the first floors.

Scaling a wall to pick a window latch would be a headache. But Vesper could've done it before her class, and now she had supernaturally granted strength and dexterity.

Taking a deep breath, and finding no better plan of attack, she moved. She had to work fast, since she didn't want to be spotted hanging off the store's wall. She chose the side of the building pointing outward from the city—there were buildings down that way, but fewer than the other side. It was the dead of night. Not a person stirred, and all lights were off.

The wood logs made for poor foot- and handholds, but robbing a person wasn't supposed to be easy. Not that she'd come with the intent to rob. Information gathering. She scaled, struggling to climb the log wall even with her improved grip strength and balance. Her dagger created handholds where she couldn't find them naturally.

Precariously perched high enough she could reach the second-floor window, she tested whether it would give—whether it had no lock, or perhaps Archibald had simply forgotten it. Happened often with the second floor. She wasn't that lucky, though. She grimaced and reached for the piece of wire, then got to work.

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It took several tense minutes of probing and adjusting, but finally, she felt the satisfying give of the latch. She wouldn't have to come back tomorrow with better tools. One ray of sunshine in this whole mess.

Slowly, carefully, she eased the shutter open, wincing at the faint creak of old wood. Vesper paused, listening intently for any sign that the noise had alerted anyone inside. When no sounds of stirring reached her ears, she stuck her head in, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the space inside.

Archibald lay on his bed, eyes closed, blanket half pushed off of him.

His bedroom. She'd thought that more than likely, so she wasn't surprised—though she did freeze for a second. Strained ears listened for the slightest noise. There was a faint sound of slow, heavy breathing. He was definitely asleep.

As quietly as she could, she finished her precarious climb up the sheer log face of Archibald's shop, then slipped inside. Her foot set down onto wooden planks without a creak. [Inconspicuous], as much as her knowing how to balance her weight.

She took in the bedroom. To her relief, there didn't seem to be anything important—no desk and cabinet, rather, just a tiny, cramped space, a bed, wardrobe, and a small nightstand. That last piece of furniture she would rifle through if she had to. But doing so less than a foot from his face was risky even by her standards. She had easier places to check first.

Though her entry point had been stressful, a great weight lifted off her shoulders as she slipped out of his room and into the adjoining hallway.

She began her search.

She found not much of anything for the first half-hour. It wasn't until her efforts led her down the stairs and into Archibald's office—to his desk—that she found something interesting.

With the first of three desk drawers pulled open, Vesper paused at what she saw. Brow furrowing, she picked up the bundle of thick dark-brown paper and unfolded it.

Her eyebrows shot up. A gritty, white-green substance—a little too thick to be called powder—lay inside the paper.

Well.

It seemed the apothecary had a habit.

Vesper had kind of assumed the small adventuring town of Quarrygate wouldn't have an easy supply of drugs of any sort, but maybe that had been a poorly thought-through belief. More coin flowed through adventuring hubs than any other. Small or not, there had to be dealers and consumers in the quaint town.

Unfortunately, Archibald's chemical indulgence was interesting, but not blackmail material—not to offset what she'd done. It was a petty crime at best, and a hit to his reputation, but she doubted he had much of a reputation, considering the sheer bastard the man was, and even if he did, she doubted threatening him with this would stay his hand should he grow itchy for retribution.

Though maybe an addiction meant a need for coin? Was that why he'd been so slow to help, despite her threats?

She doubted it. Nightdust was expensive, but Archibald didn't seem like he was using it all that often; he wasn't an addict. At least, he wasn't so far gone to be walking around twitching. Then again, with the right temperament, a person could hide an addiction pretty easily.

Either way, not that useful to her. She folded the substance back up and tucked it into the drawer. Awfully bold to keep it so accessible, she thought. Then again, there was no reason someone should be rummaging around inside his office. This wasn't a customer-facing space, just a small room tucked behind the counter, meant for administrative tasks.

She found something actually useful in the third drawer.

A series of letters. Correspondence between Archibald, and, she found out shortly, his granddaughter. It took a while to decipher, reading through the unorganized pile, and only having the granddaughter's half of the conversation. Not half because Vesper was far from the best reader to begin with; a number of words, she didn't even know the meaning of. Progress came slowly.

It was no solid piece of blackmail, nor blackmail at all. She hadn't truthfully expected to get that lucky. But it was reassurance. Something to set her nerves at ease.

The image she patched together was this: Archibald was estranged from his family. His wife, daughter, and granddaughter—among presumably others—lived in some city a fair distance from Quarrygate. The name wasn't mentioned; why would it be, in casual letters? It was simply 'the city.' The relevant, repeating topics of discussion, ignoring the frivolous material, were these: mentions of Archibald 'making amends,' that 'the payments weren't enough to make Mom see him differently,' and mentions of a struggling financial situation, probably the reason Archibald was sending money back to his family to begin with.

Vesper couldn't really make sense of the situation, but she was confident she'd gotten the basics. And these bits of backstory explained a lot about the man. Not just his bitter and hateful attitude, but also how Vesper could stick a knife at his throat and threaten his life, yet he hadn't been convinced to part with his expensive healing materials. She'd been right about her original assumption: he needed the money, and badly. He couldn't afford to give away high-tier healing potions without a guaranteed return on investment.

Likely, he needed, or wanted, the money in the same way any man did, but also partially to feed a habit, as the nightdust suggested, and most importantly, he needed the coin to send back to a struggling family that apparently hated him—barring the granddaughter, though even that was in question, from the tone of the letters. Maybe he saw the payments as his sole hope for redemption.

Vesper had, on a number of occasions, thought about how much of a fuck-up she was. The last time had only been a handful of hours ago, sitting on her brother's bed. But this? All she'd had throughout the entirety of her life was family. Flint, her protective older brother. For all her screw-ups, she'd never done something to make him hate her, much less make her entire family—not that she had family outside of Flint—hate her. She didn't actually know what Archibald had done, but somehow, learning his wife, daughter, and possibly granddaughter thought it was better he was out of their lives drastically reduced her opinion of him, and it hadn't been a rosy picture to begin with.

She let out a sigh of relief. She had come here hoping for, ultimately, leverage: blackmail in the best case scenario. While she hadn't found that, she had found reassurance. She didn't have to rely on her gut instinct. Archibald was motivated by money, which meant, so long as they kept making payments, he wouldn't turn them in.

Not a solution. But it was something to let her and Morgana sleep easy.