Brownie-Paulo tossed his head as I tied his reins outside The Ghastly Wife.

Overhead, the sky was dark, black clouds growling and spewing out a weak drizzle. Beggars huddled beneath the roof of the tavern, feeding hay and twigs to small fires. A group of drunken men tramped through the street, too lost in their slurred song to notice when one of the pack tripped over his own feet and faceplanted in the mud.

Philip, dressed in a thick gray cloak to disguise his identity, dismounted a brown stallion from the stables. He wore his most ordinary set of clothes - a simple vest and linen shirt with his breeches and stockings. He looked wealthy, but not like a king.

Mud splashed at his feet as he touched the ground, and with a sharp huff he twisted to inspect his bejeweled green heels. I threw a grin over my shoulder as I tied his horse to the post. "Welcome to the slums."

Outside the tavern stood a well with a bucket hanging from a rope. One of the drunks paused, fiddled with his trousers, then chuckled as he let out a stream of urine into the murky water below.

The tavern was alive with laughter and overspilling goblets slamming on candlelit tables. Philip moved to lower his hood as we entered but I held up my hand. "Your hair," I whispered.

His brow furrowed but he kept the hood in place. "No one here has red hair?"

"Not like yours."

"Well, I imagine-" he began.

"And try not to... talk much," I interrupted with a grimace. His accent, clearly that of high society, would be sure to draw unwanted attention.

"My goodness," Philip said suddenly. "What is that thing?"

A black and brown polecat circled the barman's wide shoulders, baring its teeth at the men. "Hush up, you," the barman grumbled. He grabbed the animal by its scruff and tossed it on the floor.

I pushed my way through the crowd to the cluster of barrels at the bar. Beside me sat an old man with a matted beard wet with stew. His eyes were milky from cataracts and looked in different directions. "Taties," he said, and grinned at us.

"What?" I said.

Philip looked skeptically at the barrels, then spread his legs and clumsily climbed onto one.

"Taties." The old man nodded and gestured to his bowl of stew. Small pieces of corn, carrots, and long stringy greens floated in the watery broth. He smiled and fished out a white chunk of something I guessed was a potato.

Two more men took the remaining barrels beside us, dripping with rain and breathing hard. One knocked back the hood of his cloak to reveal a greasy head of long brown hair. "God's takin' quite the piss on our heads tonight." He slapped the bar twice. "Over here, aye!"

The barman slid over, one hand drying a mug with an off-white cloth. "What'll have ya?"

"Ale. And your best bread."

"I'll have the same," I said.

The man with long hair looked over at me. "I know you?"

"Name's Murray," I said. "Now you do."

"And you?" the barman asked Philip. Behind him, a barmaid in a brown leather corset and white dress slid a tray of mugs off the counter. "Well? Speak up."

"Oh, him?" I laughed. "He don't talk."

The barman poured ale from a barrel behind the bar into the half-dried mug. "Can't talk or won't talk?"

My gaze flicked to the King. He blinked back at me. "Can't," I said after a moment's hesitation. "Tongue cut out ages ago for speakin' against the State."

"The State, you say!" He slid the mug down the bar to the man next to me, then reached for another. "Lad deserves a drink on the house, aye, men?"

"Aye, aye!" The old man rattled his stew spoon, spraying droplets in the air.

The barman slid my mug down and then filled one for Philip. I welcomed the bitter, robust taste and watched in amusement as the King crinkled his nose after one sip.

A clap of thunder shattered the sky as three men pushed their way into the tavern, long cloaks streaming with rain and forming puddles on the floor.

"This damned storm," the long-haired man muttered. He tore off a piece of bread and stuffed it into his cheek. "Never be dry of it, feels like."

"One day the ground's scorched enough to crack, next the rain comes, floodin' the damn streets." The barman shook his head and toweled off another empty mug. "Just God's way of tormenting us. Whole world's gone topsy-turvy."

In the corner beside the fireplace, an old man with a gray-white beard began to strum a lute. Quietly at first, tapping his foot in time. Some of the other men nodded and whistled along.

"Now this business with France, to top it all," the barman said. "Ludicrousy if you ask me. England, allied with France. I tell ya, in my day, if I seen a Frenchman outside my door, I was well within my right to kill 'im."

I was tempted to mention the Death of England leaflet, to ask if anyone had seen it, but thought it best not to bring such a thing to attention.

Philip was right about one thing though. Here, it would be nearly impossible to pick me out of the crowd and identify me as the boy in the drawing. The only place I stood out was the upper floor of the royal castle.

But the ring. Someone had gone through the trouble to draw a singular, thick band on my middle finger. The middle finger of my left hand. Would Captain Fitzhugh, or Beauregard, or the Duke really pay that close attention to detail?

A sharp screech came from behind us, pulling me from my thoughts. I twisted to see the polecat dart between the boots of the barmaid.

"God almighty," the man beside me muttered. "What a peculiar creature."

"My littlun." The barman smiled wide, showing off a set of broken teeth. "Found it as a kit in the alley. Closest I got to family."

All around the tavern, boots tapped in rhythm with the lute. The polecat scampered off beneath the tables as a few men stood to stretch their legs.

One man approached the barmaid and spoke indistinctly to her, offering his arm. I leaned closer to Philip. "Looks like they'll dance the jig. That'll be a sight, you wait."

His eyes brightened. He kept his lips in a firmly sealed line, as if to remind himself not to speak, but nodded excitedly.

The pair stood elbow-to-elbow in the center of the room, waiting for the crowd's eyes to find them. The lute strummed faster and the girl began to dance, heavy skirts clenched in both fists as her black boots swept and caressed the floor.

A whoop rose up from the back and she grinned, candlelight dancing on her face. She locked arms with the man and together they spun, feet flying, ringlets bobbing on her pale shoulders. More joined the dance now, some with a partner and some without, forming a lopsided ring around the center tables.

Philip sat with his mug in one hand, watching the crowd with wistful eyes.

I slid to my feet and fell into line beside a pretty girl with strawberry blonde pigtails. "Come on!" I shouted to him over the laughter and clapping. "Come dance!"

Hesitantly, he stood and craned his head to spot an opening in the circle.

I faced the girl beside me, and to my happy surprise she was staring back at me. "Care to dance?" I asked.

She didn't even reply, just took my arm and gripped her skirts.

And then we were soaring, faster and faster, caught in a flurry of tapping shoes and whirling skirts. My cheeks were warm and there was a flame surging throughout my body, lighting up the room, turning the night to flame.

Bodies pressed together, beer and rum hot on their breath. Arm in arm, the pigtailed girl and I circled round and round, grinning and bouncing up and down until the room spun and I teetered away from her like a spinning top.

In the blur, I'd lost track of time. I stumbled out of the circle as the partners switched and another dance picked up.

The roar of feet pounding against the floor drowned out voices and music alike. I turned back toward the row of barrels but saw only the old man with his bowl of stew. No Philip.

My eyes swept the crowd for him, to no avail. I took a swig of ale and gazed down at the old man.

"How's the stew?" I asked.

He smiled up at me, broth dribbling down his beard. "Taties," he said.

I sighed just as the crowd parted, drawing closer to each side of the room. They were whistling and clapping for someone. I fought to see, pressed between sweating bodies on all sides.

A figure in a floor-length cloak had taken the center of the room. The crowd watched as he pranced across the tavern floor, holding his arms out as if clutching the reins of an imaginary horse. He paused at one end of the circle and bowed to the barmaid before spinning cleanly on his heel and galloping in a wide loop around the open space, raising his hand as if to crack a whip and hastening his speed.

A handful of chuckles arose and I stretched up on my toes to see better, but he had turned the other way, features obscured by the hood of his cloak.

He stopped at the other end of the room and moved both hands to his hips, slowly as the crowd watched on. Then, keeping his upper body perfectly straight, he began to skip backward, earning a loud cheer.

In the center again he plunged into a low bow, his feet crossed with one leg extended slightly, toe pointed. The tiny emeralds on his shoes twinkled in the light. He rose with a dramatic flourish, one hand swooping up over his head, and smiled.

The tavern burst into rowdy applause.

As his arm came down the hood of his cloak tumbled back to reveal his fiery red curls and fair skin, free of any scars or grime.

A few men murmured to each other, and I set my mug down, biting back a curse as the crowd stitched back together. I resisted the urge to call his name, afraid someone would put two and two together and recognize him. Were there drawings of him tacked to the wall here, with darts in the eyes and through the heart? Were there songs praying that God would still him in his bed?

I struggled through the jungle of bodies, each outstretched arm like a twisting green vine growing in my path. I reached out, narrowly missing Philip's cloak as we were swept up in the next dance.

"Think you can dance like he can?" a voice called in my ear. I turned to see two swinging pigtails and a wide grin.

"No, ma'am," I said. "But I can do this." I grabbed her hand and twirled her, then as she let out a whoop of surprise, dipped her low in my arms.

The girl shrieked with laughter. I pulled her back to her feet and she planted a hot kiss on my cheek before whirling away with the next man.

This time I locked arms with Philip and spun him away from the crowd.

"Auden!" He was grinning ear to ear. "There you are!"

"Come on, we have to go." My voice was a tense whisper. "And keep your hood up! Christ!" I reached behind him and flipped it up to cover his head.

"But why? My goodness, this is so thrilling!" He clapped his hands together, staring out at the crowd with bright eyes. "I've never seen such dancing. Everyone so close-"

I took a deep breath. Was I overreacting? I wanted him to have fun, God only knew how much we both needed it. But I couldn't forget the dangers lurking in the shadows. There were no royal guards here to protect him if something went wrong. Only me and Geoff's knife, and I couldn't imagine fighting off a band of five or six men if it came to that.

"How 'bout we go for a walk?" I asked, grazing his shoulder with mine. "It's so hot in here. Cool outside."

"Oh, alright." He stayed close to my side as I led him to the back door. "I think they liked me," he said as I held it open for him. "I want them to like me."

Cool, damp air met my face, bringing with it a wave of relief. The rain hadn't let up, but the back alley was less crowded, occupied only by whores and the homeless.

I gestured to Philip to follow, then stepped out of the tavern, leaving behind the rumble of footsteps and strum of the lute.

"I know you want them to like you," I said gently. The rain pattered on his cloak, dripping onto the muddy ground. "But remember we're just here so you can see the people. I don't..." I stopped as my throat tightened. "I can't let you get hurt."

"I won't get hurt." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Stop worrying so much."

The narrow street was crowded with beggars, some sitting upright and holding out their hands for an unlikely coin, others wrapped in a patchy blanket and slumped on their side. Perhaps they were sleeping, perhaps they were dead. Sometimes the stench made it clear.

The wind nipped at our faces, turning our ears and noses red. Farther down the dark alleyway, two figures pressed together against the wall, a man and a woman. Under the hazy glow of the overhanging street lamps, I could make out their strained features, his grip tight in her tawny locks, mouth open against her neck.

Philip gaped at them.

"Come on," I murmured. "Unless you want to wait around for a whore."

A few months ago, that whore might have been me.

"The whores..." He stepped carefully over an outstretched bony arm sticking out from a blanket on the ground. "They pick the men? Not the other way...?"

"Sometimes the men are shy," I muttered. "They need persuading." Especially the ones that were there for boys.

A year or two more, and I would be completely unsellable. My emerging biceps and thin mustache had already cut my clientele in half, maybe more. At eighteen, I was past my expiration date.

"She should be on her back," Philip said.

"What?"

Now he looked uncertain. "The woman. She should lie on her back. For the seed to take hold."

I just shook my head in amusement. "Trust me, she doesn't want any seed taking hold."

A haggard elderly woman stumbled down the middle of the street, blocking our path. "Spare a copper?" Her voice was nothing but a croak, high and strained.

Philip stepped closer to her before I could hold him back. "Are you quite alright, madam?" he called. "You look in ill health!"

"One copper ya won't miss."

"She wants money, ignore her," I said.

The woman was barefoot, wearing a dirty white underdress that was torn and frayed at the edges. She chuckled before gathering the cloth in her stiff fingers and pulling it up slowly along her body.

First the gray curls of her pubic hair were revealed, then her large, sagging breasts that hung down to her ribcage. Her tongue jutted out past her lips and snaked back and forth as she bent forward and began swaying, making her breasts swing like cow udders.

Philip looked terrified.

"Come on," I said, gripping his arm to drag him away from the old woman. She stopped her little dance and stared after us, then dropped the dress back down and turned toward the door to wait for the next man.

"Oh, I feel sorry for her," Philip murmured. "We should give her something. Don't you have any coins?"

"No," I snapped. "And stay away from people like that. They're riddled with disease."

"You sound like Beauregard."

I stopped walking and faced him. "He's right. About some things, anyway. I don't want you going near these lowlife scum, do you understand?"

"You told me to talk to the people!" Philip shouted at me. "How am I meant to do that if I can't go near them?"

"I didn't mean talk to some drunken whore!" I exploded. "You think she gives a damn about this country? All she cares about is getting her cunny filled for a fucking copper!"

"You are unbelievable." He spun on his heel and stormed farther down the alley.

"Philip."

He didn't respond.

"Where are you going?" I yelled.

He tossed me a sulky glare over his shoulder and kept walking.

Hot anger boiled up inside me and I clenched my fingers into a fist. Part of me wanted to let him go, get lost perhaps and come running back to me, but another part knew it might be the last time I ever saw him.

I bit down on my jaw and swallowed hard before jogging after him. I caught him beneath a street lamp and grabbed a handful of his cloak to halt him. "Philip, stop."

"Let go," he mumbled.

"Don't walk away from me!" We struggled for a moment before I pushed him against the brick wall and gripped both his wrists between us. He let out a little grunt and tried to shove me back but I held tight, stronger than him despite his size. "Look at me," I ordered, harsher than I intended. My breath came fast as he forced his eyes to mine. "This is no time to be stubborn. Can't you just listen to me for one night?"

"Why should I?"

"Because you're in my world now," I answered without thinking. "Which means I'm responsible for you."

His lips came together, eyes dropped. I glanced up and down the alley. Between two brick buildings, a pair of barefoot men in rags towered over a motionless bundle on the ground. Drunkards, mumbling to one another and swaying on their feet. Philip's eyes stayed glued to them as one searched through the unmoving man's pockets and the other pried off his shoes.

"Fine," he whispered.

"Thank you." I let go of his wrists but he caught my hand.

"I don't want to go home yet." His voice was small.

I smiled, squeezing his fingers in mine. It felt good to hold his hand again after so long. "You don't have to," I said. "I have one more place to take you."