What Comes After

o n e

3rd Person POV

Harper had always loved medieval history. When she got a email from the staff at Fernhall Manor, inviting her to its official opening, she had jumped on a train and sped to Birmingham. Nothing better than a medieval manor, right?

When Harper arrived, she greeted the hostess then slipped away to look at the manor's museum room. It was her normal routine - the ancient artifacts that had come into possession of rich families fascinated her. She didn't understand how they could abandon these kinds of treasures, leaving them locked away from the public.

As she climbed the stairs to the second floor of the mansion, she heard a loud rip from above her. She crept towards the source of the noise, a small room at the end of a corridor.

Rip. Rip. Rrrip.

The swishing stopped, and Harper pressed her ear to the door.

Footsteps.

Curious, she peeked in. A man was rolling up a painting and stuffing it into his satchel. After staring for a few seconds, it became clear what he was doing.

"HEY!" Harper ran into the room and put her hands on her hips, trying to look as intimidating as possible. "STOP RIGHT THERE!" The man looked shocked for a second, but his expression melted into a smirk.

And then he was gone. "YOU! COME BACK!" shrieked Harper, bolting after him down the stairs. Pushing through clusters of talking guests, she scanned the crowd. No sign of the man.

There!

He was at the door, looking around. For her, Harper presumed. He took one final glance before pushing the door open and making his escape.

Not this time.

Harper ran across the room and flung open the door, sticking her head outside. Dozens of posh guests were now staring, but Harper didn't care. This was more important.

She spotted the man - he was walking away calmly. Good - he hadn't seen her yet. She started to follow him, remembering her techniques. Walk on the other side of the street. Don't make eye contact. If he stops, keep walking for a while until stopping too. If seen, keep walking, then turn onto a different street.

Harper tailed him all the way back to his house, where he stopped and went inside. She watched carefully through an open window. Her plan was easy: she would wait until he left the room, then climb in through the window, take the painting and leg it.

She got lucky, and the man went upstairs, leaving his bag on the coffee table. Harper crossed the street and wriggled in through the window. She was in. Now for the painting... Her eyes fell on the satchel, laying on the coffee table. Easy. Harper tiptoed up to it and stuck her hand inside, rooting around until she found the rolled-up painting. The hardest part was done. Now she had to get out.

Creak. Creeeak.

Footsteps. He was coming. Thinking quickly, Harper bolted for the front door, opening it and stumbling out onto the street. Gripping the rolled up painting, she sprinted for the nearest bus stop, leaving the door open behind her.

He had seen. He had seen, he had seen, he had seen.

Harper ran away faster than she ever had before.