‘It’s going to be very lovely,’ she told Caleb Turner, smiling up at him.

‘Ar. Well,’ he said, his expression not changing a jot.

‘Get some sleep, Caleb,’ Aunt Hatt instructed. ‘You’ve done a fine job there.’

Some of the workers were carrying on with other orders, but a select number of them were fixed on getting Herr Schmale’s brooch finished in time for him to leave the following day.

That afternoon, as the light was beginning to fade, there was a knock at the front door. Everyone in the office looked up.

‘I hope that’s not Freddie Small come already,’ Aunt Hatt said.

Bridget went to the hall. She returned a moment later, a perturbed expression on her round face.

‘There’s a lad out there,’ she said. ‘Poor little thing. Asked for Miss Hanson. I don’t know which one but Miss Annie’s not here.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He’s got nothing on his feet – and he’s filthy. Shall I send him packing?’

‘No.’ Margaret got up. It sounded as if someone was in need. Going to the door she peered out into the fading light and saw a scrawny figure outside holding a bundle of something over one shoulder. He wore a cap, trousers that came halfway down his calves and a shirt far too big for him which hung out, reaching almost to his knees. It took her a moment to see his face properly and realize who it was.

‘Is that . . . Den Poole, isn’t it?’

He stepped closer. Gruffly, he said, ‘Can yer buy some of my firewood, miss?’

Margaret went out on to the street. ‘Are you feeling better now, Den?’ she asked. The boy raised his free arm to rub his nose against his sleeve, then nodded. She felt how cold it was – and here he was with no shoes.

‘Come inside, Den,’ she said. ‘Of course I’ll buy some of your firewood – but come and get warm.’

Den obeyed, but with a proud tilt of his head. As they went back into the house, Margaret saw that the door of number twenty-four was open and Daisy Tallis was looking out, her hair hanging like thick curtains over her shoulders. Margaret smiled at her. She saw the girl look curiously at Den Poole before she returned Margaret’s smile.

‘Who . . . ?’ Aunt Hatt was in the hall, a look of horror on her face. ‘Who’s this . . . ?’ She managed not to say ragamuffin.

‘This is Den,’ Margaret explained. She was moved by his appearance at their house. She knew he had come to find her. ‘His sister is Lizzie Poole, who works with Annie. May I give him a cup of tea, Auntie?’