He couldn’t stop thinking about Liddy and May. All the things he’d done since he last saw them. How they might look at him now. Their disappointment. Their downright horror. He wasn’t even drunk. His flask sat untouched in his pocket but his head was still spinning.

Sworbreck was getting booed. Properly booed, like an old show that had started boring its audience. The Burners were looking uneasy. Bannerman stood near the dock, arms folded, frowning worried towards the galleries.

Broad ripped the letter open. He could hardly remember what May’s writing looked like. Wasn’t as if he was the best reader, even with his lenses. His eyes were swimming. The Court of the People faded. The nervy burble of Sworbreck’s questions, the cool snap of Savine’s answers, Sarlby’s grumbling and the swelling gabble of the public galleries, it all faded.

He heard Liddy’s voice when he read it. He heard May’s.

Gunnar. Father.

We hear you are in trouble. We hear you have lost yourself. We miss you. Every day we miss you.

We know who you are. Our husband. Our father. A good man. You just have to remember.

We hope every day that we see you again soon.

Your family,

Liddy and May.

A good man. Something pattered on the paper and made the ink run. A drop of sweat off his forehead, surely. He crumpled the letter in his fist, pulled off his lenses and wiped his face on the tattooed back of his hand. It was trembling.

“And now,” Sworbreck was screeching, “you would have us believe that you have turned all your undoubted cunning towards charitable projects? That the great exploiter has become a great philanthropist!”

“I opened my house to orphans,” answered Savine, her voice turning sharper, “and in the slums I try to give bread and coal to the needy. The Fates know there are enough of them.”

“Are there indeed?” Sworbreck had a sly smile. He thought he’d hooked her, like an angler with a record-breaking fish, and was pulling her in.

“There are many for whom the Great Change has changed little,” said Savine. “People without work, without food, without fuel. The chasm between rich and poor yawns as wide as ever. I simply try my best to bridge the divide.”

Sworbreck was triumphant. “Do you presume to say so?”

“No,” said Savine. “You do.”

“What?”

She reached under her nursing baby to slip something out. Stained, worn, cheap paper tattered at the edges. But the name of its author had been printed in very large type. Large enough for all the court to see.

“The Darling of the Slums,” said Savine, “by Spillion Sworbreck.”

Broad remembered the day that pamphlet was written, out in the Three Farms, and he gave a disbelieving snort. You had to admire the gall of it.

“I… well…” Sworbreck had turned almost as red as his suit. “I’m not… sure I recall—”

“Let me refresh your memory by reading a typical passage.” Savine flipped the pamphlet open, and while rocking her baby began to read. “‘As Lady Brock moves through those darkened streets, it is as if a beacon shines. Lighting the way to a better life for these neglected unfortunates. As if the sun breaks through the smoke of the manufactories. She gives out bread, yes, she gives out wisdom, surely, she gives out silver with an open hand, but more valuable than all, she gives out hope.’ You praised my charity and selflessness.” She glanced back at the pamphlet. “My apologies. My remarkable charity and selflessness.” She lifted her brows. “Are you calling yourself a liar?”