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"Sin! Sinclair! Where the hell is that boy at?" The Master's younger son stood in the doorway with a scowl twisting his handsome face as he looked for the slave, but the beautiful young man wasn't among the servants and slaves hard at work in the kitchen. Stepping into the room, he cut a path straight to the head cook, ignoring the scurrying men and women darting around him as they went about the frantic preparations for the evening meal—as lower servants and slaves, they were beneath his notice.

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He disabled the burglar alarm then pushed the metal pick into the door lock at the back of the house; let the tool play across the lock's pin. Too much or too little pressure, too little or too much finesse guaranteed failure. The skill in using a pick is to bounce it in the keyway according to the resistance offered by each pin. Gently coercing the pins into obeying his will, he was sensitive to the sound, the feel of the pick touching each pin.

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