Stitches In Time by KATHY Page A

certain. Feeling the brush of soft fur against her calf, she realized that Figgin had slithered out of the kitchen before she closed the door; he was always trying to sneak into the shop, which was out of bounds to the animals; there were too many temptations, hanging fabrics and drooping ruffles and feather trim. She pushed him gently away with her foot and slipped into the shop, closing the door behind her. Figgin let out an indignant yowl. It was echoed by a furious burst of barking from the family room.
    "Shut up," Rachel hissed.
    There was no comment from Figgin, but the barking continued, loud enough and continuous enough to cover lesser sounds. It was not until the front door started to open that Rachel realized the dogs weren't barking for the fun of it. They were sounding the alarm.
    The light from the lamps at either end of the room left the doorway in shadow. She saw him as a dark bulk, menacing and motionless. Then he stepped forward and the light rippled along the blade of the long knife in his hand.
    If she had been thinking sensibly she would have known a book, even a book two inches thick, was an ineffective weapon. Her action was completely instinctive; the book hurtled across the room, pages flapping, and hit him square in the chest. Recoiling in a movement as instinctive as hers, he slipped and fell over backward. The crash shook everything in the room and set the crystal dangles of the chandelier to chiming. Rachel pressed the light switch.
    The fallen form looked like a bear wearing jeans. From the waist up it was a featureless expanse of furry brown.
    "God damn it!" Rachel shouted. "What—what—" Fury and relief choked further comment.
    A paw-like hand rose and waved feebly at her. He was wearing mittens—brown mittens. Pushing away the hair that had covered his eyes, he blinked at her and then looked at the book lying on the floor next to him.
    "How appropriate. Pat has threatened me with this particular volume before, but this is the first time I've ever had the book thrown at me. Why couldn't you have been reading a paperback romance?"

four
    Cheryl had been right about one thing. Once Adam got started talking he never stopped. As he hoisted himself to his feet and closed and locked the door, he delivered a lecture on her carelessness and folly. It was a very well-organized lecture.
    "Obviously," he remarked, pushing the hair out of his eyes and tossing his brown, furry jacket over a chair, "you are under a certain amount of nervous strain. That's comprehensible, but if you didn't know it was me at the door your behavior was irresponsible. And if you knew it was me, as you ought to have done, you shouldn't have tried to brain me."
    Rachel got her breath back. "How the hell was 1 supposed to know it was you? I didn't know you'd left the house. I thought you were in your room."
    "Didn't you get my note?"
    "What note?"
    " I pinned it on your door."
    "I've been in the family room all evening. Why in heaven's name couldn't you have told me you were going out? What's the idea of going out anyhow? Where have you been? Can't you talk?"
    " I could if you'd shut up for a minute," Adam said coolly. "Your counterargument is irrelevant to my original premise. If you believed I was here your behavior becomes even less rational. Observing what you took to be an unauthorized intruder actually in the house, you should have retreated immediately and gone for help. Screaming might also have been a sensible action."
    Even if she hadn't been angry, Rachel would have taken offense at that suggestion. "Oh, sure. That's what women are supposed to do, scream and run for help. Fat lot of help you'd have been, dead asleep and snoring; by the time you arrived, if you ever did, he would have caught up with me and ... He had a knife! He—you—"
    "Me," Adam said. "As it turned out. But your counterargument has some merit. I did have a knife. Found it on the porch. If I'd known you were in the shop I might have considered the