Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0NAXSV2ENW8GWJSNFSC23E

Molly spread the crayon-drawn floor plan across the bonnet of the van and pinned down the corners with two sausage rolls and Bill’s left shoe. Bill squinted at it. “Why is the conservatory labelled ‘Dragon Cave’?” “Because that’s where the bouncy castle is,” Molly said. “And because I ran out of grey.” “You drew this yourself?” “I reconnoitred at three this afternoon disguised as a face painter.” “You can’t paint faces.” “That’s why I was thrown out.” Across the street, the house blazed with balloons, bunting, and the shrill, sugared music of a children’s party entering its most lawless phase. Tiny pirates, astronauts, princesses, and one extremely convincing traffic cone tore through the garden. Bill adjusted his black wool cap. “I don’t like it, Molly. Kids are unpredictable.” “So are geese, and we stole that Fabergé egg from under twelve of them.” “One goose had a knife.” “It was a breadstick.” “It knew what it was doing.” Molly tapped the plan. “Presents are stacked in the lounge, here, beneath the banner that says Happy Birthday, Alfie. We enter through the side gate, cross behind the magician, slip in through the patio doors, load the gifts into the laundry baskets, and depart before anyone notices.” Bill looked toward the house. “What about parents?” “Distracted by prosecco and competitive sandwich arrangement.” “What about dogs?” “None.” “What about cats?” “One, elderly, emotionally unavailable.” “What about the magician?” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “He’s our greatest threat.” At that moment, a man in a purple tailcoat produced a dove from a colander, to wild applause and one child’s furious demand to know where the pasta had gone. Bill shuddered. “Magicians are criminals with applause.” “Focus.” “I am focusing. I’m focusing on the moral aspect.” Molly stared at him. Bill cleared his throat. “Stealing from children feels… low.” “We are not stealing from children,” Molly said. “We are stealing from adults who bought things for children.” “The children are the intended recipients.” “That’s just paperwork.” A small girl in fairy wings ran past the front hedge screaming, “The cake has eyes!” Three more children followed, also screaming, delighted. Bill folded his arms. “What if the presents are lovely? Wooden trains. Books. Educational globes.” “Then we fence them to sentimental grandparents.” “What if there’s a puppy?” “Puppies do not come wrapped.” “They do in cartoons.” “We are professionals, Bill.” “We once burgled the wrong bungalow and made tea for the owner.” “She looked tired.” He sighed and picked up his shoe from the map. “What’s our exit?” “Back through the gate, into the van, away.” “Simple.” “Elegant.” “Doomed.” Molly leaned closer. “Why doomed?” Bill pointed. “Because the traffic cone is watching us.” The child in the orange cone costume stood at the end of the driveway, arms folded, face stern beneath the point. Molly and Bill froze. “Do cones have ears?” Bill whispered. “That one does.” The cone marched over. “Are you the clowns?” Molly blinked. “Yes.” Bill blinked harder. “No.” The cone considered them. “Mummy said the clowns are late.” Molly smiled with the speed of a safecracker hearing police sirens. “We’re very undercover clowns.” “Where are your noses?” Bill patted his pockets. “Lost in traffic.” The cone narrowed his eyes. “Can you make balloon animals?” “Absolutely,” Molly said. “No,” Bill said. “Excellent,” said the cone. “Come with me.” Before either thief could object, he seized Bill’s sleeve and dragged them through the gate into a storm of children. The garden smelled of icing, grass, and panic. A boy with blue whiskers shouted, “Do a giraffe!” Someone thrust a packet of balloons into Molly’s hands. Bill leaned toward her. “This is how it ends.” “Nonsense,” Molly muttered. “We improvise.” Ten minutes later, Molly had made something that might have been a dachshund after a fright, and Bill had created a long green balloon he insisted was “a snake with ambition.” The children loved them. The presents sat visible through the patio doors, bright and glittering, guarded only by a sleeping cat and a pile of coats. Molly edged toward them. “Now.” Bill watched Alfie, the birthday boy, hugging the balloon snake like treasure. “Molly.” “What?” “He named it Sir Hissington.” “So?” “So he loves it.” Molly glanced at the child, then at the presents, then at Bill’s ridiculous hopeful face. She groaned. “Fine. We don’t steal the presents.” Bill brightened. “Really?” “We steal the magician’s wallet.” “Molly.” “His watch?” “No.” “His dove?” “No.” She sighed as the children chanted for another balloon. “All right. We steal the show.” Bill grinned. “That’s legal.” “Barely,” said Molly, twisting a balloon into an accidental lobster. “And I hate legal.”