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This is why he didn’t come to London. He simply couldn’t bear it. “Damnation,” Tom muttered to himself. “Where’s your mother, Sweetheart?”

She looked away again. But Tom had some practice talking to children in the village; he took her hand and said, “Take me home, please.”

She didn’t move. “I don’t go places with men.”

“And you’re absolutely right,” he said, dropping her hand. “Going home is not the same as going places, though, is it?”

She thought about this for a moment. She had a sweet, rosy little face, although her eyes were terribly serious. Tom had a familiar feeling, as if his chest-bone were pressing into his stomach.

“I don’t go home until I sells all my apples.”

Tom got out four pence, for which he received two more apples. There was almost a smile in her eyes: almost. Then she started walking away, so he tossed all three apples to a stableboy and asked him to keep an eye on his luggage. She didn’t head out into the series of twisting little streets that surrounded the Pewter Inn, but straight around to the back and into the kitchen.

“I’ve told you not to come back in here until you’ve sold them all!” he heard someone say, as he pushed open the door.

A red-faced, middle-aged woman was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, scowling down at the apple-seller.

“I did sell them all,” the little girl said, giving the woman her money. “To him.” She pointed at Tom.

The woman swung around and her face changed instantly from irritated to menacing. Tom almost took a step back, as she reached behind her and palmed an enormous rolling pin, as long and wide as his arm. “You get out of here,” she ordered. “I’ve had your kind around here before, and we don’t hold with them.” She grabbed the girl and pulled her behind her apron. “Meggin is not going anywhere with you, no matter the money you offer!”

“I’m a vicar,” Tom said, loosening his traveling cloak so that his collar showed. “I was merely worried about little Meggin being by herself in the posting yard.”

“She’s not by herself. The posting yard is safe enough.And I never heard that being a vicar stopped nobody from being wicked.” Mrs. Fishpole had heard enough stories about the roguery of men in black to distrust the very sight of a collar.

“I’m not one of them, Madam. I’m from the North Country, though, and not used to seeing children as small as this earning their living. But obviously you are taking excellent care of Meggin, and I apologize for disturbing you.”

Mrs. Fishpole narrowed her eyes. He was a good-looking man, for a vicar. Nice eyes, he had. “Whereabouts in the North Country?”

“Beverley, East Riding,” Tom said cheerfully. The odd tightness in his chest was easing. “I’ve a small parish there. I’m only in London to visit my brother.”

A huge smile spread across the woman’s face. “Beverley, eh? I’m Mrs. Fishpole, Reverend, originally from Driffield meself, though I haven’t seen it in years. So you must be in the Minster, isn’t that what it’s called? My dad took me to Beverley once when I was a youngster and we delivered a load of sand to the Minster. It’s a beautiful church. I’ve never forgotten it. I do think that it rivals Paul’s.”

“Perhaps the sand was used when they were refurbishing the west transect,” Tom said. “I’m actually not the reverend of the Minster, but of an adjoining parish, St. Mary’s. Reverend Rumwald is the vicar of the Beverley Minster.”

“Lord Almighty, is old Rumwald still alive, then?” Mrs. Fishpole’s whole face had softened. “He taught me my catechism, he did. He used to come over to Driffield once a month, seeing as we didn’t have a parish priest. Too small, we were.”

“I’ll give him your best,” Tom said. “I’ll tell him of your happy situation here, as cook in this excellent establishment. And about your lovely daughter as well.” He smiled at Meggin but she looked away.

Mrs. Fishpole pursed her lips. “Meggin isn’t my daughter. And she doesn’t earn her living with these apples, either. I have to feed her from the servants’ scraps.”

“Meggin isn’t your daughter?”

“No,” Mrs. Fishpole said, pushing Meggin out from behind her skirts now that she seemed to be in no imminent danger. “Her mum was no better than she should be, I’ve no doubt. We found her here one night, all but set to have the child on me own kitchen doorstep. The poor woman didn’t survive the birth, God bless her soul.”

“In that case, Meggin is doubly lucky to have you,” Tom said. “I shall have to congratulate Reverend Rumwald on how well he taught you the catechism.”

But Mrs. Fishpole was looking at him like a dog that’s found a string of sausages on a street corner. “And what if you had found Meggin in a bad situation, Reverend? What was you planning to do next?”

Tom hesitated. “I’m not certain.”

“I expect you know of them charities, though, don’t you?” she demanded.

“Something of them,” Tom admitted, thinking that most of what he knew about London charities wasn’t very cheerful.

“You take her!” Mrs. Fishpole said, giving Meggin a little push. The girl gasped and tried to dart behind her skirts again.

“What?”