The black iron gate stood tall and proud, sharp finials gleaming with drops of rain. In the center of the street, a vast building loomed over the neighboring shops and houses.

Two brown hogs circled each other in a wooden enclosure, snorting and flapping their stringy tails in the mud. The weather had worsened - the night sky seemed more angry than sad, spitting out its wet with a particular savagery.

"Home for Lost Children," Philip read off the sign.

"Behave," I reminded him.

A man lifted a lantern to our faces at the gate. He staggered closer, as if drunk, his broad hat sagging down about his ears. "Ev'ning!" he called out. "You men from the workhouse?"

Philip opened his mouth, then looked to me uncertainly. "Aye," I said.

The man scratched the tip of his nose with one finger. "Lads lookin' scrawnier than ever. Not many prospects, I dare say." He moved to unlock the gate, lantern swinging. "The girls now. Them little fingers sew a clean stitch."

Mud pooled beneath our feet as we tramped past the pen. For years, orphans had been lured off the street and offered food and warm beds by kind-eyed women from the Home. Most were sold to workhouses by the month's end.

The man threw open the heavy doors of the black building. "Goody Camborne! Workhouse men are 'ere."

A scuffle of footsteps marked the maid's approach. She wore a stark white coif and high collar that covered her throat up to her sharply pointed chin. "Thank you, Mr Camborne."

Her husband dipped his head to us and let the door swing shut before returning to his post at the gate.

Philip's eyes wandered up and down the long hallway. The walls were damp and stained, the ceilings chipped in some places. A rat hunched over a pile of crumbs in the corner.

"Pardon me, sirs. We were not expecting visitors till the morrow." Goody Camborne kept her hands clasped together before her as she walked. "I shall show you to the children. They are taking their evening meal."

The stench of sweat and rot carried up from the end of the hall. A man leaned against the wall, half-concealed by shadows, smoking a pipe. He watched us with glassy eyes before blowing a puff of smoke into the air.

"It is our dearest hope that you find some of the children strong and fit for labor," Goody Camborne continued. "We do our best to keep them fed, but more and more arrive each month..."

She turned us toward an open room. Long wooden tables seated rows of children, girls on one side, boys on the other. The little girls wore small caps similar to Goody Camborne, though notably more gray than white.

Philip hesitated. He shrank close to me as if they were rats that would bite him.

"Go on then, have your look," Goody Camborne said.

Candles lit the tables as the children ate hastily, scraping their bowls with wooden spoons and dabbing at the last bit of mush with a crust of bread. A chicken flapped its wings in the center of one table. On the floor, more chickens crowded, pecking at crumbs.

The stench was nearly insufferable, though it was nothing I hadn't smelled before. Sweat. Sick. Rotten food.

Philip inhaled a small breath as his eyes circled the room. The children were quiet for the most part, eyes on their bowls, squinting to ensure they hadn't missed any last morsel. Rags hung from their gaunt bodies, layers of grime darkened their faces.

"This is how they live?" he whispered.

I thought of the letters Geoff had found, addressed to the King. Stacked in the back corner of an empty office, never opened. Countless voices that likely died unheard.

"This is how we live," I answered.

Philip's face was white. He reached a hand to his throat, then just above his heart. "I'm going to be sick."

I gripped his shoulder as he turned to leave. "Then be sick," I said. "But look at them."

He faced the children with gulping breaths. Some of them looked about nine or ten years old, while others couldn't be older than six. The dirt on their faces aged them, but their malnourished bodies kept them small, thin enough to slip inside chimneys and other crevices to clean.

Philip coughed and drew a handful of his cloak up to cover his mouth. He stumbled from the row of tables to a corner of the room where a little girl knelt, weeping. "God..." he whispered. "Dear God."

A gray-and-white cat lay sprawled on the floor, unmoving. I could tell from a glance that it was dead. Two balls of fur curled against the cat's side while three larger kittens prowled the area, sniffing tentatively.

"Mercy." Another maid, older than Goody Camborne, swooped in to pinch the girl by her ear. "Back to the table, you little flea."

I raised my hand to wait and the maid shrank back. She smoothed her dress with a smile.

"You like this girl, sir?"

"The kittens." I looked down at the little girl. "They're yours?"

"The mummy cat has gone to sleep," Mercy explained, her head hanging. "The babies have nothing to eat."

"Don't need no more of them creatures," the maid sniffed. "Rats are bigger than they are."

"Could raise 'em up to catch the rats." At my words, Mercy lifted her tear-streaked face. I crouched down and held out my finger to one of the kittens. Unlike the others, which were striped with gray, this one was all white. Yellow eyes blinked shut as it sniffed the tip of my finger.

"Are you here to take us away, sir?" Mercy asked. Her shoulders bunched up as she spoke, cowering closer to the filthy floor. She must have been about eight. As hard as my life had been, I had always had a home to return to. I had always had a mother.

My hardships were nothing compared to these children.

"Would you like to leave this place, Mercy?" I murmured, voice low so the maid wouldn't overhear. She eyed us from the table.

The girl smiled. Half her teeth were missing. "Oh, yes! Someday a family will take me to be their very own daughter!"

"Mercy." The maid approached, two hands falling on the child's bony shoulders. "Enough."

Philip looked faint as we walked back through the tables. He glanced at me, his lips drooped open, eyes darting. "I... I had no idea..." he tried.

I looked at him, and he turned away with a face of guilt.

The hall brought some relief from the stench of unwashed bodies. The rats, having picked the floor clean of crumbs, darted across the wavering shadows at our feet.

Philip stopped and pressed his back to the wall. His eyes were wild with distress. "Is the whole city like this?" he choked out. His voice trembled, threatening tears.

I didn't answer. Didn't have to. I stared at him, my own grim sickness swimming in my stomach. "Do you know why I brought you here?"

He raised his head. Breathed in deeply. Nodded.

I let him stand there for a moment, taking it in. For the first time a seed of doubt blossomed in my chest. What if I was doing the wrong thing? What if we went back to the castle and nothing changed?

What if I was carted off to prison and Philip went on as King, ruling as his father did?

"Wait!"

Two little feet dashed down the hall. Breathless, Mercy reached us and pressed the mewling white kitten against my chest. I caught it just before it fell to the ground.

"You take it," she said, rocking back on her dirty heels. "Take it somewhere nice."

I passed the kitten to Philip, who accepted it with an excited little gasp and cradled it in both hands. I touched the girl's arm and crouched down to meet her eyes. "Mercy, my name is Auden Murray." I glanced up at Philip before returning my gaze to her. "We're not from the workhouse."

Mercy looked confused. "But-"

"Mercy, I want to..." My voice choked up. "I want to come back for you. Do you think you can stay here a little longer?"

The girl seemed to consider. Then she nodded solemnly.

"I promise to take very good care of your kitten," I said, and she grinned.

"Goodbye, kitten," she said, kissing its soft head. She ran back down the hall and turned to wave at us. "Goodbye!"

My heart twisted inside my chest.

Philip tucked the kitten inside his cloak to shield it from the rain. "Auden," he murmured as we returned to the horses. "Can we go to your house?"

I forced out a laugh. "What? In the middle of the night?"

He shivered in the icy cold. "You said you make the trip every week. Surely you know the way?"

I turned to him, the dim starlight above making his features barely distinguishable. The tiny kitten kicked in his hands and he grasped it tighter. "Don't be ridiculous," I said, though my heart ached at the thought of seeing my mother again, hearing her voice after these grueling months. "I have to get you home."

"But-" He jumped in front of me before I could untie Brownie-Paulo. "But if we went there I could talk to people. Good people. I could meet your family... oh, they all sound so lovely."

I swallowed uneasily. Once Westley let his opinions on the State slip, we would all be heads in a basket. "I don't know, Philip," I said quietly. "It's late."

He hung his head, crestfallen. His damp curls peeked out from the hood of his cloak and his eyelashes blinked heavy on his freckled cheeks.

I scrubbed at my face with a long sigh. Lord help me. I couldn't even look at him. "For God's sake. Fine. Fine!"

All of a sudden he sprung up and bounced on his toes like a child. "Huzzah!"

"Shut up," I snapped. "Keep your hood on."

But my heart warmed at the picture of my mother's smiling face.

🦢•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧.˚ *•̩̩͙ 🦢. •̩̩͙*˚⁺‧.˚ *•̩̩͙ 🦢

Familiarity hugged my sodden frame as we approached the old wooden fence with its broken posts and puddles of rainwater. The sight of my mother's house atop the hill sent a pang through my chest.

What would she think of me? I was not the same boy who had set out that June morning, headed to the royal castle with dreams of hope and grandeur.

I had grown to fit the immensity of my new life, and now, I would have to shrink to fit through my front door.

We climbed over one of the fallen fence posts and made our way up to the house. A wagon with two wheels sat before the barn, filled with hay and broken twigs and some chipped pottery. Once, I found a booklet of dirty illustrations Westley kept buried beneath the hay. I threatened to tell Mama and he threatened to kill me, so we were at a standstill.

The house was dark. I knocked twice on the door and craned my neck to see a tiny flame appear on the other side of the dirty window.

I nudged Philip. "She's coming," I whispered. He held tightly to the kitten.

The front door cracked open and a woman with wild brown hair stuck her nose out. "Who's at my door?" she hissed. "At this ungodly hour!"

My breath caught. I had not heard my mother's voice in months. Strangled with emotion, I could only push open the door and throw my arms around her.

My mother screamed.

"Mama!" I said, burying my face in her hair. "Mama, it's me!"

Her gaze remained blank for a moment before recognition flickered in her pale green eyes. "Oh, dear God. Auden!"

"Mama," I laughed.

"God in Heaven, I missed you." She clutched at my shirt, nails digging into my flesh. "My sweet boy."

Philip stood back. A trace of sadness hung in his gaze. I turned, one arm still wrapped around my mother, and held out my hand to gesture to him. "Mama, this is..."

He looked at me, suddenly hopeful.

"Thomas," I swallowed.

"Thomas," my mother repeated. The kitten mewled.

"Thomas... Ecclestone."

"Elated to make your acquaintance, Mrs Murray." Philip took a huge breath and stepped up excitedly. "You'll forgive me for not shaking your hand." He held up the kitten to show her. "Your home looks lovely. Quaint little place. May we come in?"

My mother's eyes widened. "O-Of course. Make yourself..." He strode past her. "At home."

"Pay him no mind," I whispered. "He's a bit touched. Where's Westley?"

"Out. Says he's gotten some job but I smell the liquor when he comes home..." She trailed off, shaking her head, then leaned in to hold me again. "Oh, how your visit has warmed me. How long are you staying, love?"

"Just tonight. We must ride back at sunrise." Across the room, Philip had settled onto my old bed, his cloak loosened and his mouth stretched in a yawn. He set the white kitten down to explore.

"Your companion is certainly... peculiar," my mother murmured.

"Have we any scraps for the kitten?" I asked. "Some water?"

Her expression changed to one of concern as I urged her to the farthest corner of our house. She pulled a bowl from the cupboard and filled it with cool lake water.

"Mama." I took a short breath. "Much has happened." She smelled of the spices she cooked with and the honey she rubbed on her lips to keep them from cracking. She smelled familiar. Safe.

"Tell me." Her voice was soft, but urgent. I knew this voice. She wished to take my pain from me. It was exactly why I'd spent so many years hiding things from her.

Where could I begin?

"I saw him die, Mama." My words came out of nowhere, quiet, strange sounding.

"You mean..." She nodded slowly, playing with the hem of her nightdress. "Westley brought home the papers. I wondered... where you were... when it happened."

"We were in the courtyard. King came to make his speech. He was yelling at the crowd and then-" I shook my head once. "The blood, the way his body lay, it haunts me. It won't leave my head."

In the faint light of the candle, my mother's thin eyebrows contorted.

"It started something," I continued, the words tumbling out now. "In London, in the whole country perhaps. In me." I swallowed. "The people are so... hungry."

My mother said nothing. Her eyes sank, her expression unreadable.

Dare I tell her of the leaflet? The rebel propaganda that depicted me slaughtering the King? How could I bring that fear to her heart?

"There's something else." My voice was quiet now, scarcely a whisper. "The Prince. He was standing by his father. On the balcony. And he... he smiled. I saw him smile."

"Of course he did." She gave a snort and carried the bowl of water out for the kitten. "He wanted the power."

I fell silent as we approached the bed. Philip lay curled up on his side, shoes off with his feet tucked beneath him. He had balled his cloak into a makeshift pillow.

My mother stooped to set the bowl down. The white kitten scampered up to drink. "What a dear little thing," she cooed, stroking its fuzzy head with one finger.

"For you, Mama," I said.

A warm smile deepened the tiny wrinkles at her eyes and mouth. Her face was aging, hair graying, and yet her timeless beauty remained. Forever the most beautiful woman I would ever know.

"Oh, my love." She pressed her cheek to mine and drew me close. "The greatest gift is having you home and well."

I held her tightly, clinging to her as if for the last time. All my life she'd been a pillar of strength, raising six boys alone on a farm that barely produced enough food to survive. Never once in all those years had I seen her break down.

How many silent tears had she cried, alone in bed at night? How many aches and pains had she pushed through with a smile?

When we pulled back, she read my face in an instant. "What is it?"

"I miss being your boy, Mama," I whispered.

Her eyes found mine, that soft green meadow I'd always found comfort in. "There is nothing to miss," she said. "For nothing has been lost."

I sank down on my bed and untied my boots. The kitten, haven drank its fill of water, came up to sniff my laces. I smiled at it, but my smile quickly dimmed as I thought of Mercy. The children. All the other suffering souls of London.

"Mama," I said curiously, "have you ever wished for a daughter?"

"A daughter? Why..." Her eyes widened. "I am blessed to have my sons."

"Yes, but all boys. Surely you would have wanted one girl to keep you company?"

"What is this about?" she murmured. All at once, panic bloomed in her light eyes. "My god, do not tell me you have... is there a baby?"

"Oh! No," I said quickly, voice hushed. "No, nothing like that. I would not... I have never... ah, let's forget it." I could not ask my mother to take on a seventh child. Not after all the years she'd spent raising us.

"Gale's wife is with child again," she told me. "Their third."

I thought of the summer of fishing and Gale and the blacksmith's daughter and the angry blacksmith chasing my brother with his red hot iron. "Suppose he's always had a talent for that," I muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. It's been a long ride. I better rest up," I said, stretching my legs out on the bed. "Hey, move over." I gave Philip a shove. He turned onto his belly before burying his face in the cloak.

"Five more minutes... Beauregard," he mumbled.

"Who is Beauregard?" my mother asked.

I stifled a yawn. I had forgotten what it was to lie in my own bed! My familiar old bed, my straw mattress and chicken-feather pillow. Could one ever wish for anything more? "The Lord Chamberlain," I said.

"The Lord what? Auden, you speak in riddles. Who is this... Thomas... you are with?"

My heartbeat hastened. My drowsiness was gone entirely now. "Mama..."

Suspicious, she peered over him. Her eyes narrowed at his tufts of red hair and silky white stockings. My mother had always been a clever woman. And though I had concealed truths, I could not bring myself to lie to her face. "He's no farmer," she murmured. "What is he, nobleman's boy?"

"Not quite."

My mother glared at me. "Son, I'll slap you silly if you do not tell me who's sleeping in my house."

I hesitated. I trusted her more than anyone else in the world. "His name's Philip," I said. "Not Thomas."

She blinked, waiting for me to continue.

"He's not what you'd think. He wants friends. Wants to be loved. Wants to be like us." My breath caught as her expression clouded with something I did not recognize. "He... he wouldn't hurt anyone. You have to believe me. Not even..."

"Philip." Her jaw trembled as she spoke. I could practically see the thoughts racing behind her eyes. And then, her body grew very still. She'd figured it out. "As in, Philip..."

"As in, Philip IV of England."