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she loved, the one she wanted to marry, although they had never spoken of such an outcome. Still, he decided, he was done with waiting. Pushing his plate away untouched, he went to his room and counted the heap of coins under the mattress, then set his jaw, climbed the stairs unbidden, and requested a word with Mr. Granger.
     

 
     
     
     
     
Chapter 8
     
    In Which John Pickett Hatches a Scheme
     
    “Yes, John?” Elias Granger lifted an inquisitive eyebrow, puzzled at his apprentice’s uncharacteristic invasion of the family’s residence on the upper floors. “What is it?”
    “I was just wondering, sir—” Pickett swallowed hard. “I was just wondering how much it would cost to—to terminate my apprenticeship.”
    “Are you thinking of leaving me, then?” Mr. Granger asked in some consternation.
    Pickett hesitated a moment before deciding that it was better, surely, not to declare his intentions until he was certain he could afford to do so. “I—I was just—just wondering. In general, you might say.”
    Mr. Granger frowned thoughtfully. “How old are you, John?”
    “Eighteen, sir.”
    “And your apprenticeship will end when you are twenty-one. Three years, then. Let us say ten pounds per year, then, for a total of thirty pounds.”
    Pickett was left speechless, gasping for breath as if his master had just punched him in the stomach. His savings amounted to only seventeen shillings, a tiny fraction of that amount. He could never raise thirty pounds, not if he ransacked every pocket in Covent Garden—which he couldn’t do in any case, since he’d promised Mr. Colquhoun he wouldn’t steal again.
    Mr. Colquhoun . . . For some reason he had never really understood, Mr. Colquhoun seemed to take an interest in him. Pickett wondered if the magistrate might be willing to make him a loan; he had been giving him money every week anyway, and although these contributions in no way approached the amount Mr. Granger required, surely Mr. Colquhoun would accept their return as his first payment, and an indication of Pickett’s good faith. Filled with renewed purpose, he stammered his thanks to his master (although exactly what he was thanking the man for, he could not have said) and returned to his own room.
    There was nothing else he could do to further his courtship until the next week, when he, Tom, and Bob made their regular stop in Bow Street. When Mr. Colquhoun tossed him a penny for his pains, Pickett surprised the magistrate by giving it back.
    “If you please, sir, I would rather you kept this until—I should like to talk to you about a—well, never mind that. I can’t do it here, sir—” A furtive glance toward the door, where at any minute Tom was likely to appear, bellowing for him, lent veracity to this assertion. “—and so I was wondering if I might—”
    Mr. Colqluhoun took pity on him. “You are free on Sunday afternoons, are you not? If you will call at my house this Sunday, you will find me at home.” He gave Pickett his direction, and had him repeat it back to make sure the boy had heard him correctly.
    “Thank you, sir,” Pickett said breathlessly, and hurried outside to the coal wagon, where Tom and Bob waited.
    The week dragged on interminably, as time always does when one is awaiting an eagerly anticipated event, but Sunday arrived at last. Upon returning to Cecil Street after church, Pickett did not follow his usual habit of changing immediately out of his good clothes (in fact, the only ones he owned which were not permanently stained with coal dust, and which comprised his most recent Boxing Day gift from his master), but wore these on his visit to the magistrate, determined to present as much as possible the appearance of a young man who might be counted on to repay—eventually, if not immediately—a loan of thirty pounds sterling. He reached the house whose direction Mr. Colquhoun had given him, then set his shoulders and marched up the stairs.
    The door opened to his