Run: 2026-03-09-01KKABXZ88HGS4GYZ7S12KTHKN

Molly and Bill crouched behind the soggy hedge at the edge of Number Twelve’s garden, looking like two burglars who had lost a fight with a rain barrel. Beyond the leaves, paper lanterns bobbed over a lawn full of shrieking children in pirate hats, and a banner reading HAPPY 7th BIRTHDAY, OSCAR! flapped with suspicious cheerfulness. Bill wiped his glasses on a sleeve that only redistributed the damp. “I’m just saying, there’s a moral slope here, and it feels terribly slippery.” Molly adjusted her knitted cap and peered through the branches. “Bill, we are thieves. Moral slopes are basically our stairs.” “Yes, but we usually steal from people with safes. Or art. Or at least matching cutlery.” “Today,” said Molly, “we diversify.” A clown in giant shoes waddled past the patio doors carrying a tray of orange squash. Bill shuddered. “I don’t trust him. He has the walk of a man who has hidden a knife in a balloon animal.” “That’s not our target. Focus on the loot table.” Under a gazebo at the far end of the garden sat a trestle table piled high with presents in bright paper: dinosaurs, rockets, glitter, ribbons, bows the size of poultry. To Bill, it looked less like a haul and more like an accusation. He whispered, “Those are clearly gifts for a child.” “They are,” Molly said. “Briefly.” “Molly!” “What? We’re not keeping them. We fence the expensive ones, donate the educational ones, and I’m having the remote-control shark because frankly I deserve joy.” Bill blinked at her. “You have made this somehow worse and better at the same time.” From the garden came a great roar as the children were instructed to pretend the paddling pool was lava. One small pirate immediately fell into it and announced himself dead with enviable commitment. Molly smiled. “See? Chaos. Nature’s smoke bomb.” “I still think we should have chosen the antiques fair.” “The antiques fair had retired colonels. This has sponge cake and supervision fatigue. Read the room.” Bill looked again. Two adults were trying to untangle streamers from a terrier wearing a fairy crown. Another was arguing with the clown near the sausage rolls. “All right,” he admitted. “Security is... whimsical.” “Exactly.” “What’s the plan?” Molly held up three fingers. “Diversion, acquisition, retreat.” “That’s not a plan. That’s headings.” “It’s a framework. Under diversion, you release the bouncy castle blower.” Bill stared. “Deflate the castle full of children?” “Not while they’re in it. I’m a thief, not a novelist from the dark ages. You wait till they’re all called for cake.” “And acquisition?” “I stroll in disguised as an aunt.” “You can’t disguise yourself as an aunt.” Molly gave him a pitying look. “Bill, every woman over thirty at a child’s party is assumed to be an aunt until proven otherwise.” He considered this. “Painfully plausible. And me?” “You’re carrying a clipboard.” “A clipboard?” “No one questions a clipboard. It’s official wood.” Bill sighed. “I hate how often you’re right.” They watched as the birthday boy was lifted onto a chair and crowned with a paper hat the size of a lampshade. Parents gathered, phones rose, and the whole party pivoted toward the cake like sunflowers obeying a sugary god. Molly tapped Bill’s arm. “Now.” Bill scuttled toward the bouncy castle pump with the panicked dignity of a man trying to look employed. Molly straightened her coat, smiled pleasantly, and slipped through the gate with the easy confidence of someone who had once stolen a Fabergé egg from a bishop. “Lovely decorations,” she said to no one in particular. A tired father holding paper plates nodded at her. “You with Sophie?” “Spiritually,” said Molly, and continued. At the gift table she worked fast, sweeping presents into a large floral holdall hidden beneath her coat. Bill reappeared, clutching a clipboard he had apparently found rather than invented. “It worked,” he hissed. “They’ve all gone inside to sing.” “Excellent. Grab the square ones. Square means expensive.” “That cannot possibly be true.” “It is in Surrey.” He obeyed, trembling. “There’s a tag on this one. It says, ‘To Oscar, love Gran.’” “Gran should have hidden it better.” The holdall bulged. Inside the house, the children launched into a staggered, lawless version of Happy Birthday that sounded less celebratory than medieval. Bill glanced toward the patio. “We should go.” Molly hefted the bag. “Agreed.” Then the clown stepped into their path, arms folded, orange wig glowing like a warning flare. “Leaving so soon?” he asked. Molly smiled thinly. “Depends. Are you with Sophie?”