It’s Thomas’s turn. He has been skipped over twice, defended his place with an elbow, exchanged a fleck of boisterous Smoke with a half-drunk apprentice mailing a letter to his mam. Thomas asks for two pencils and five large sheets of drafting paper. The clerk grumbles but fetches them, the paper already lightly stained. While he is gone, Thomas’s gaze falls on four printed posters, nailed to the wall next to the man’s chair. Each holds the drawing of a face. Charlie is well-rendered, looking young and a little fatter in the cheek. Livia is unrecognisable, eyes lowered and shrinking into the shadow of a bonnet. He himself looks fierce, the jaw jutting, a thunder of brows. It’s Julius who is oddest, hung separately, and staring pale and startled from under a floppy fringe. The clerk notices Thomas’s stare; turns to follow his gaze, then rests his eyes on Thomas.

“Well then,” he mutters into Thomas’s sudden terror and takes some coins straight out of his palm. “‘Missing. No Reward.’ It’s not like I give a shit.”

He hands over the folded-in-half sheaves then chases Thomas with a wave of his hand. “Get, boy. Next.”

A man has elbowed past before Thomas has recovered enough to step aside.

ф

Outside, Thomas sprints a good half mile then stops for breath. The rain has turned to drizzle but even so the paper he purchased is already damp. He folds the sheets, shoves them down the waistband of his trousers, then stands breathing, elated by his escape. A beggar, his back propped up against a house front, sits watching him, one leg a calfless stump.

“You’re looking like the cat that made off with the cake,” he calls. “Spare some pennies, friend?”

Thomas laughs and strolls over to him.

“Anybody ever give you any?”

“Sure they do. The good people of London!”

“Really?” Thomas pictures it, this city of ruffians, doling out charity. “Why?”

The man shrugs. “They just do. Sentimental, I suppose. Got themselves a heart.”

Thomas accepts this answer and puts some pennies into the man’s cup. He crouches down so he and the beggar can speak face-to-face.

“If you could,” he asks, his mind wandering back to the twin queues at the post office, “if someone gave you the power. Would you magic away the Smoke? Stop it, I mean. Make it disappear.”

The beggar eyes him, greedy for another coin.

“Sure,” he shouts. “Stop it, I say! To hell with Smoke.”

“Really? You wouldn’t miss it?”

“Then don’t,” the man backtracks. “Keep it how it is. Nuttin’ wrong with it. Only yer undies chafe a little on yer privates.”

“And what do you think of rich folk?”

“The rich?” Reckless now, enjoying their game. “Hang ’em! Hang ’em high.”

“And the Queen?”

“Oh, I like ’er! Hang ’em but save the Queen!”