‘Shall we continue?’ said Mr Boothby.

She blinked. ‘Yes. Yes, I am quite recovered.’

When they drew level with the works, she glanced across to find that same youth standing there, on the bridge, and staring. At her. She drew in a breath. She knew those eyes, had seen them before, desperate and fearful, and also full of sympathy in the dawn light and, now, round with surprise and pleasure. And she found an answering smile of recognition was spreading on her face, and warmth kindled in the pit of her stomach. She had grasped those muscular arms, had felt the hard weight of his body fall on hers, the shock of his pelted nakedness under her fingertips. She lifted a gloved hand in greeting.

‘Mr Boothby, I think I see…’

But Mr Boothby wasn’t listening. He had hold of her elbow and was steering her along the busy pavement. She lost sight of the youth as a carriage passed, then there he was again, standing in the same spot, continuing to stare after her. For the first time since that terrible night she felt something other than numb sorrow. She desired something, even if it was simply to cross the road.

‘Can we…’

‘Come, come, Miss Wragg.’ His grip was firm.

She was being pulled along like a child and a cold fury swept over her.

‘You are squeezing my arm.’

‘I only want to get us out of this crowd, Miss Wragg. We shall end up under the wheels of a cart if we are not careful.’

‘I would like to…’ but then she stumbled, turning over on her bad foot and gasping in pain.

Mr Boothby only increased his grip on her. Harriet cast a last glance over her shoulder, but her view was obscured now by the blank faces all around her.

The road inclined steeply once they were over the bridge and into the district of Castlegate, once the entrance to a medieval castle in which, Harriet had learned as a child, Mary, Queen of Scots had been imprisoned for twelve years. It now led, rather more prosaically, to the town hall that sat at the crossroads at the top of Waingate. They hurried past the taverns and shops that had sprung up to serve the growing population of the town – Parkin’s tea dealers, Dalton’s cabinet makers, Riley’s grocers, the Bull and Mouth tavern, which Harriet noted already had drinkers inside it despite the early hour, and the Anvil, Rose and Crown and White Hart. Harriet was breathless by the time they arrived, from a combination of avoiding bumping into other pedestrians, the throbbing ache in her foot and the encounter on the bridge. The entrance was busy with people. Inside, a queue was forming along the wall opposite a large fireplace that dominated the foyer.

‘The lucky survivors,’ said Mr Boothby. ‘Come to claim some compensation.’

‘These people cannot all be waiting for me,’ said Harriet.

‘No, no. There are others recording claims besides you.’