We never could've known it then, but the next ten years would turn out to be the best years of our lives. We became inseparable; the self-proclaimed Three Musketeers of Petty Theft. And we were good.

It wasn't that we never got caught, we were just kids and missteps did happen on occasion, we were just better than most at not being caught. The first time Estella got snagged, she let out such an ear-shattering scream that the chap that got her had to cover his ears, and when he did she bolted and disappeared into the alleys.

Having Estella with us turned out to be more advantageous than we thought. She may have dreamt of being a fashion designer, but she had a strong talent for acting as well. Folks were far more willing to give their undivided attention to a crying school girl who'd gotten separated from her parents than they were to a pair of shady-looking young boys. She played her parts well, and when Horace and I slithered among her audiences, for the most part, they were none the wiser. Silly of me to think now that I believed it to be just another talent of hers and not a tiny glimpse of the monster that was lying dormant deep inside. But all that happens later.

For the first couple of years we were content with our little small-time crime family ways. After a while, though, I could see the glaze of boredom begin to creep into Estella's eyes. She may have been forced into a lifestyle of crime, but she never gave up her dream of one day becoming a fashion designer. The space she'd claimed at our flat was covered from top to bottom with her sketches and magazine photos and newspaper clippings. I had an idea.

It took a little of my own sneaking around to keep it a secret, but for our third Christmas together I got her a sewing machine and a few bolts of fabric. The fabrics were stolen, of course, but I spent my own money on the sewing machine when I happened across it in a charity shop. It was all worth it to see her face light up that morning. She squealed with delight and hugged me so tightly I couldn't breathe. That was the first time she kissed me.

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Now, as a young man of fifteen, I wasn't exactly a perfect stranger to fleeting affections for girls my age; I was a young man, after all. But ever since I'd first developed the interest, I'd never truly felt anything for any one of them. Even now, I still can't figure out why she was different, or why it was her that my heart responded to.

It was only a quick peck on the cheek in a rare moment of unchecked excitement, but that quick little peck stirred something deep in my heart. Something that, because of my own early-life experiences, I didn't even believe I was capable of feeling for another person.

After that, I found myself doing little things just to see her smile, with the secret hope that maybe, just maybe she might kiss me again. I never did anything excessive or suggestive, of course, she'd have bludgeoned me herself if I'd been that brazen, but I knew which trivial, seemingly random things she liked. Her favorite Indian takeaway when she was in an off mood, or a magazine or sweet she really liked, and fabrics. Always fabrics.

So it was that at the age of fifteen our griffs started to become more elaborate, incorporating clever disguises into the acts. That made Estella happy. Seeing Estella happy made me happy.

However, the butterflies that had begun to spring up in my belly whenever she smiled at me had also begun to make me question the wisdom of secretly pursuing her attention. I knew my chances were slim that she might possibly ever have the same feelings for me that I was coming to realize I was developing for her, but I was young then, and it felt like a chance worth taking. Sometimes I wonder how differently things things would've turned out if only I'd kept my stupid heart to myself.