“Probably stole from half the shops on this street already!”
Joan’s heart hammered against her ribs. She kept one arm stretched out behind her, keeping the boy shielded, while her other hand clenched into a fist at her side.
Think, Joan. Think!
They don’t know me, she realized. Why would they believe me over one of their own?
“Please,” Joan said, raising her voice to be heard over the growing tumult. “If you would all just listen for a moment?—”
“We’ve heard enough from you!” the woman spat. “You London folk think you can come here and tell us how to manage our own affairs. Well, we know a thief when we see one!”
“But you have no proof!” Joan protested. “You cannot accuse a child based on mere suspicion?—”
“I have all the proof I need! He bumped into me, and my money vanished. What more proof do you require?”
I will not let them hurt this child, Joan thought fiercely.Whatever happens to me, I will not let them hurt him.
She was opening her mouth to make another appeal when something caught her eye. A glint of metal, peeking out from beneath the woman’s dark skirts.
Joan’s gaze sharpened. The woman’s petticoat had ridden up slightly in her agitation, and there, just visible against the muddy hem, was a small leather purse.
Could it be?
Without giving herself time to reconsider, Joan darted forward and grasped the purse, yanking it free before the woman could react.
“What is this?” Joan demanded, holding the purse aloft.
The woman’s face went white, then red. “That’s—that’s mine! Give it back!”
“Is it?” Joan opened the drawstring and tipped the contents into her palm. Several coins tumbled out—far less than twenty pounds. Perhaps fifteen shillings at most. “You claimed you lost twenty pounds. Yet here is your purse, with money still in it, hidden in your skirts.”
A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd.
The woman’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. “That’s—that’s different money! I hid that separately! The boy still stole the other twenty pounds!”
“Did he?” Joan’s voice was cold as winter frost. “Then you will have no objection to us taking this matter before the magistrate.”
The woman’s eyes darted around wildly, seeking support from the crowd. But the townspeople were whispering among themselves now, their expressions shifting from hostile to uncertain.
“I—well—that is—” the woman stammered.
“Unless,” Joan continued, pressing her advantage, “you would prefer to admit right now that you fabricated this entire accusation.”
“How dare you!” The woman’s voice rose to a shriek. “I am a respectable?—”
The woman grabbed at Joan’s arm, trying to push past her. Joan held firm, and for a moment they struggled in an undignified tangle of skirts and flailing limbs.
“Let me go! Let me?—”
The crowd parted suddenly, roughly, as a man barreled through. He was tall and powerfully built, with arms thick from years ofhard labor. His apron was stained with blood, a butcher, Joan realized.
“Percival!” The man’s voice boomed across the square. “Percival, where are you?”
“Father! I’m here!” The boy released Joan’s skirts and ran toward the man.
The butcher knelt down, running his hands over his son’s face, his arms, checking for injuries. “Are you hurt? Did anyone harm you? Tell me, boy.”
“I’m all right, Father,” Percival managed, though tears were now streaming down his face. “I didn’t steal nothing, I swear! I didn’t!”
