Maisie Hawthorne POV"Watch where you are steering that thing, pup," the elderly cart driver grumbles, his rough voice cutting through the hum of the Hawthorne Grand Hotel service wing.I hold my breath, pressing my cheek against the cold velvet lining of the transport bin as the timber cart jolts over the stone threshold. The driver doesn't realize he is hauling more than just heavy winter cloaks and embroidered tapestries down to the lower courtyard. I squeezed out from behind the decorative stone pedestal the exact second his back was turned, snatched my heavy satchel, and burrowed straight beneath the mountain of fur-lined coats before he could blink his sleepy eyes.He pauses for a brief second, clearing his throat with a raspy cough. The weight of the cart must feel different, but after a grunt of irritation, his leather boots scuff against the floor again. The heavy wooden wheels roll forward.I stay buried in the thick wool, the scent of cedar and old leather filling my nose a
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