The thin wooden rod swung out quickly, blocking her path out of the shop. “Put it back, young miss, or cough up the money. You know the rules.”
The girl looked up at the shop keep with the kind of determination that only an eight-year-old with braided blonde pigtails can manage. “You can’t stop me. Do you know who my mother is?” She put her hands on her hips, just over the pockets that held the stolen property.
The older woman laughed. “Child, I knew who your mother was before you knew who your mother was. A mighty fine woman who certainly knows how to move things around discreetly. You may have smuggling in your genes, Missy, but you’ve to a long way to go before you’re even close to Lady Abigail. Now put them back, before I call your mother, and tell her that you not only tried to steal, but tried to steal poorly.”
The girl held her glare for a moment longer, before softening at the shoulders and turning around to empty her pockets.
The shop keep watched her go with a smile on her lips. Maybe later she’d tell that girl the story of how she caught young Abigail trying to do just the same thing. It’d make the child’s day.