Free Bowery Girl by Kim Taylor

were, the soles soft enough that she felt the rounded cobblestones beneath her. Nice and quiet, too.
    She reached into a special pocket she’d sewn near her waist and grasped her little knife. It would only take one slice—for the knife was very, very sharp—and a quick dash into the clamor of the butcher shop nearby. The purse looked heavy; there might be enough to take Annabelle out for a real feast. Maybe mutton or pudding or sherry. And God knows how soon Annabelle’d be needing three or four meals a day. There might even be enough for a whole box of books. That would certainly shut Annabelle up. And there’d certainly be enough for a few months’ rent.
    Mollie pulled the knife from her pocket, palming it so the blade wouldn’t glint.
    Down the steps she walked. Two steps. Three steps. A little bootblack slammed his case into her legs and she almost tumbled backwards. Any other time she would have taken a hand to the side of his head. But not now—no need to call attention.
    She didn’t pretend to look at the books—no one would think her a reader, anyway. She kept her eyes aimed toward the street, but that purse swung back and forth in the side of her vision. She passed the Do-Gooder—very close, close enough to smell the lemon verbena she wore. And oh, how the fabric draped so beautifully over the stupid rich woman’s bustle. Mollie paused long enough to read the title of the book she held: David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. The pages were bordered by the yellow and brown of rot and age.
    Mollie wouldn’t pay a penny for something in such terrible condition. But here the woman was, opening her purse, so close to Mollie that the flutter it made in the air felt like fingers on her skin.
    Still the woman did not notice her.
    Mollie’s blessing was that most people ignored her. This made for some of the easiest pickpocketing one could imagine. Even if the mark caught up with a policeman, even if he’d looked her right in the eyes, even if she’d bumped into the woman she’d pinched something from—why, when the policeman asked for a description, there were hems and haws and “I don’t really remember”s. This allowed Mollie to wander merrily and innocently off from the scene, the goods she’d lifted already stashed in a pocket.
    Mollie stood so close behind the woman, she could read those first lines:
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    Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
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    She felt the heat of the woman’s back, and noticed the sweat in the little pale tendrils of hair so carefully curled against her neck.
    Schmidt gave a yellow-toothed smile. “And how is the settlement house, Miss DuPre?”
    The woman straightened. “Very well. The baths are out, to make way for the children’s room. You should come to an evening lecture.”
    A roar and bellow came from down the street. “Thief !”
    Mollie turned her head toward the sausage stand, where a man in a black overcoat waved his hands and pointed down the street. A policeman’s whistle shrieked. Mollie stifled a smile. She knew the cop’s chase would be useless. A pickpocket could be a ghost when he wanted to be.
    â€œIt’s education that will stop that. This is exactly why my settlement house will teach morals.” Miss DuPre shook her head and returned to the books.
    Mollie leaned in, then, turning the blade of her knife to the purse strings. It was a matter of half a second now.
    â€œI wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Miss DuPre closed the book before her, and turned. She did not grab Mollie. She did not cry “thief.” She pinned Mollie with a stare—not of disbelief, or fear, or anger—of challenge. There it was, flinting in the gold flecks of her pale eyes. As if she dared her to take the purse and suffer the consequences.
    â€œI’m