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to be stolen by slave traders. He turned around and pelted back.
    â€œWhat are you doing? I nearly lost you! Come on! I’m never going anywhere with you again; it’s like herding a cat.”
    Rose seemed to be stuck to the floor. Really stuck, for when he tugged her, all she did was lean slightly. He couldn’t shift her at all.
    â€œLook!” she whispered, enthralled. She was pointing at something in the window. Dresses, Bill supposed at a guess, but when he looked too, he saw it was a toy shop. An enormous doll, dressed in a white fur cloak, was staring grandly out at them. She had golden hair in ringlets—real hair, Bill thought. His mother had sold her hair once, but she hadn’t got much, because it was only brown, not a fashionable auburn. He remembered being horrified to see her with short spikes all over her head, like a boy. Beside the doll stood a perfectly miniature little dog, a curly white French poodle on a blue leather lead that the doll held in her kid-gloved hand. She was surrounded by doll’s furniture, including a little gold-painted wardrobe, out of which spilled more silk and lace outfits.
    â€œSuppose you’ve never seen a doll,” Bill suggested. “Big one, isn’t it?”
    â€œI have,” Rose murmured. “Miss Isabella has one almost as big. But this one moved!” She glanced up at him, pleadingly. “Really it did, Bill. I’m not lying. She waved to me! Is it magic?” She turned back, and then clutched his arm. “Oh, look! Look!”
    Again the doll stiffly raised one arm in a grand lady’s regal wave, and this time the little white dog barked too, in a strangely squeaky voice.
    Bill looked at it carefully, then peered around the side of the doll, pressing his nose to the window. “Nah. Thought so. Clockwork. Look, Rose, you can see the key.”
    Rose leaned in to see too. He was right. Sticking out of the doll’s back was a large silver key. As they watched, the doll’s mouth opened slightly, and she said “Ma-ma!” before the key clicked around.
    â€œYou wind her up, and she does all those things one after the other,” Bill explained. “Clever.”
    Rose stared at the doll, disappointed. “I thought it was a spell,” she said sadly. She’d imagined a magic doll, who could sit at the little tea table in the window next to her and drink from the flower-painted china, like a tiny girl.
    Bill snorted. “Doll fit for a princess, that would be. That thing probably costs ten years’ wages as it is. If it had a spell on, you’d be paying it off for a century!” He looked down at her, frowning. “What do you think magic’s for, Rose? It doesn’t get wasted on dolls. Too expensive. Too rare . Don’t go thinking it’s all over the place, just because Mr. Fountain can click his fingers and it rains rose petals.”
    â€œCan he?” Rose asked excitedly.
    â€œOnly if someone’s paying him a king’s ransom for it. Magic’s serious stuff.” Bill frowned at her.
    Rose nodded. She understood what Bill was saying, but she just couldn’t bring herself to believe it. There was so much richness here in the world outside St. Bridget’s. And however important and special magic was, she’d only seen it telling stories on shiny things. That wasn’t serious at all. Surely magic couldn’t be all to do with making gold? That seemed so sad.
    â€œLook, if magic was easy to get, do you think we’d be polishing the silver all the time? It’d have spells on it to keep it shiny instead. And there’d be self-lighting fires, and plates that washed themselves.” Bill shook his head. “People are cheaper, Rose. We’re cheaper.”
    â€œSo you don’t ever see it, then?” Rose asked sadly. “There’s never magic things in shops, or anything like that?”
    Bill shrugged. “Oh, sometimes,