To Kiss a Thief by Susanna Craig

was? Who she was? What everyone believed she’d done? It had been difficult, as a stranger, to find her place in a little village where everybody knew everyone else, and always had. The people of Haverhythe were warm and loyal. But it had not been easy gaining their trust. Once lost, it would be lost for good.
    â€œIs what true?” she asked hesitantly.
    â€œIs that gentleman your husband?”
    Sarah’s jaw stiffened, but she forced herself to nod.
    Mrs. Potts’s eyes widened. “And Clarissa’s pa?”
    At just that moment, Clarissa came through the doorway dragging her bonnet by its strings. Mrs. Potts cast a doting eye in her direction. “You’ll have to tell her, you know.”
    â€œTell what, Mama?”
    â€œAll in good time, dear one.” Sarah sent Mrs. Potts a speaking glance. “For now, let’s see about those kittens, shall we? Remember, though, you must not touch!”
    Just as she knelt to tie the child’s bonnet, a sharp rap came at the front door, echoing through the house like the report of a pistol. The two women jumped. Both knew who it must be.
    â€œGo,” Mrs. Potts insisted, taking the bonnet from Sarah’s hand and ushering her toward the back door. “I’ll take care o’ him.”
    As Sarah scooped up her daughter, Clarissa lay her bare head against her mother’s throat. Sarah buried her nose in the girl’s tousled curls and inhaled deeply.
    She could not— would not— lose the one thing that had made the last three years worth living.
    Once they were out the door, Sarah set the child on her feet. Clarissa darted down the steps and into the alleyway, pausing at the archway that led to the lane. Catching up with her, Sarah saw a team of gray donkeys drawing a heavily laden sledge up the steep street, carrying cargo that had been off-loaded on the quay and was now bound for some Haverhythe cottage, Haverty Court, or perhaps points beyond. Although it was a regular sight, Clarissa clapped with delight and watched the donkeys pick their way carefully up the cobblestones, the kittens momentarily forgotten.
    Yesterday’s rain had given way to the kind of intensely blue sky unique to autumn. A light breeze gave the air a certain crispness, fluttering the ribbons of Sarah’s bonnet and teasing loose a few strands of hair beneath it. It was a morning that ought to have called Britons of every sort to come out of doors to soak up the last rays of sunshine before the gloom of winter set in. The street was nearly deserted as they made their way up-along, however.
    They made a game of guessing what the sledge carried and followed the donkeys slowly up the street, waving them on their way when they came to Mr. Beals’s door. Having finished the morning’s deliveries, the stout baker had just opened his shop and was sweeping off the oddly shaped wedge of a step that brought the shop’s floor in line with the sharp angle of the street.
    â€œAnd a good morning to you, Mrs. Fairfax!”
    â€œMeg?” Clarissa cried out.
    Mr. Beals smiled. “Why, there’s my girl,” he said, ushering them inside as he lifted his dusty apron from a hook and tied it around his ample middle. “Bright Meg’s just back here, where it’s warm. But I do believe she’s ready for callers.”
    Clarissa darted past the counter and toward a basket in the corner nearest the oven. Sarah glanced around the shop and was relieved to see it otherwise empty. “Remember what I said, Clarissa. You must not touch. Do you hear me?”
    â€œYes, Mama,” she said, throwing herself onto her hands and knees so that her chin was level with the edge of the woven container that held the stuff of all her dreams.
    Inside a basket lined with scraps of soft fabric, Bright Meg was a circle of orange fur, her whole being seemingly wrapped around her four precious babies. Sarah envied the mama cat’s