Molly unrolled the blueprints for the suburban two-story across the van’s grimy dashboard. Through the smudged windscreen, the birthday party for six-year-old Brayden-Lee was in full, deafening swing. A bouncy castle in the shape of a lurid-green dragon wobbled precariously near a cluster of manicured rose bushes. “Okay, Bill. Eyes up.” He didn’t look up from his bag of crisps. “Is that a water feature or an inflatable waterslide?” Molly tapped a manicured fingernail on the paper. “It’s the entry point. Pay attention. At 14:30 hours, the magician arrives. He uses a smoke machine for his grand entrance. That’s our cover.” Bill squinted at the schematics, a fine orange dust settling on the drawing of the conservatory. “Smoky. I like it. Very theatrical. What’s my role? Am I the lovely assistant?” “No. You’re the distraction.” “Ooh, a rogue element. Dashing. Mysterious.” “You’re going to release the party ponies.” He paused, mid-crunch. “Release the ponies? Molly, they’re ponies. They’ll just stand there and eat the prize-winning petunias. It’s not exactly chaos.” “They’re Shetland ponies, Bill. They have the temperament of angry badgers. A well-aimed carrot will send them stampeding through the croquet lawn. Trust me.” “While I’m instigating a miniature equine riot, what are you doing?” “I’m going in through the kitchen service entrance, disguised as a gluten-free caterer.” “They won’t buy it. You look like you enjoy bread.” Molly shot him a withering glare. “I have a polo shirt and a look of quiet judgment. I’ll blend right in. I secure the haul from the designated ‘Present Parlour,’ then exfiltrate via the French doors.” He considered this, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Right. Okay. Ponies, gluten, judgment. Got it. Just one question.” “What?” “What flavour is the cake?” Her perfectly planned monologue came to a screeching halt. “The cake?” “Yeah. Because if it’s a standard Victoria sponge, fine. But if it’s one of those multi-layered rainbow numbers with the buttercream frosting, the mission parameters have to change.” “We are not stealing the cake!” Bill held up a hand, suddenly the voice of reason. “I’m not talking about stealing it. I’m a professional. I’m talking about procurement. A tactical sliver. For morale. Think about it, Mol. We’re going up against toddlers and their chardonnay-fuelled mothers. We’ll need the sugar.”