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But everyone here showed great enthusiasm for everything she cooked. Well, everyone except Tuppence, who was understandably sensitive to certain flavors or textures. June always made sure to provide her with simple, nourishing alternatives: slivers of poached chicken, a little dish of buttered macaroni, or a delicate blancmange drizzled with ginger syrup.

The rest of them devoured each meal like it was their last. Their appreciation kept surprising her, actually. She wouldn’t have expected a table full of prisoners from Millbank to exclaim with delight over orange soufflé, eating the pale citrus clouds slowly to make them last. They had all moaned in pleasure as they’d eaten ragout of duck simmered in a broth of onion and port wine.

The only thing no one had liked very much was pigeon in calf’s-foot jelly, a class assignment that June had brought home. Mad Dog was the only one who’d eaten a serving, pronouncing it the best pigeon he’d ever had. Belinda, who was disposing of the rest of it in the kitchen slop pail, had said to June under her breath, “He’d eat a boiled shoe if you served it to him.”

June hadn’t been sure whether the girl had meant that Mad Dog’s appetite was indiscriminate, or that he would eat anything June made because he’d taken a fancy to her. But she thought it might be the latter. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. On the surface, the notion was preposterous. As if she’d take up with a man who’d been to prison.

She had to admit, though, that Mad Dog had turned out to be not-terrible company. He was quiet, for one thing. Unless she felt like talking, and then they had relaxed conversations about nothing much at all. She would tell him stories about her childhood and her friendship with Reina and the past few years she’d lived in Nether Wallop with her mother and all those stepchildren and the vicar who preached the most boring sermons in all the history of sermonizing. In return, Mad Dog would reminisce fondly about past friends and companions—an assortment of hideous criminals and brutal corrections officers. He’d liked them all very well and was convinced they’d liked him too, which had led June to conclude that Mad Dog’s idea of friendship meant “not killing on sight.”

For being the most dangerous and terrifying man in London, Mad Dog was surprisingly thoughtful, always turning up to do small tasks such as carrying out the slops or helping to pull stray quill-stubs from a plucked fowl. In return, June had undertaken to teach him the alphabet.

She’d started him off with a slate and pencil, but soon that idea had to be abandoned. Every time Mad Dog’s grip on the pencil tightened with effort, it snapped in his fingers. A dozen pencils were broken on the first afternoon. June had been irritated beyond bearing, assuming he was doing it on purpose. But Mad Dog had protested so vigorously that he was doing his best, June had recruited Reina to come see the problem for herself.

After viewing Mad Dog’s efforts to write the letter A, resulting in the demise of yet another pencil, Reina had said the issue had something to do with something called “manual dexterity.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your hands,” Reina had told Mad Dog. “If I asked you to hold an ax, or lift a clamp of bricks, you could do that with no difficulty. But handwriting—even the act of holding a pencil—requires the use of tiny accessory muscles you haven’t used before.”

“I’m cack-handed,” Mad Dog had said flatly. “No use trying to teach me nothing.”

“Not at all,” Reina had exclaimed. “The muscles are there; we just have to exercise them. As you practice, your brain will learn how to work with your hand.”

They had started Mad Dog on a regimen of dexterity exercises, including picking up a succession of coins from the table with his thumb and forefinger, and twisting and untwisting a threaded bolt and nut. The one he found most difficult was holding an unsharpened pencil at the far end and inching his fingers down until he reached the place where he would properly hold it to write. Although he could manage it with a wooden pencil, he still found it well-nigh impossible with a more fragile slate pencil.

Mad Dog practiced dutifully, however, sitting at the kitchen table while June rolled out dough or peeled apples or potatoes. And eventually, as she’d become accustomed to his company, June had come to realize the man wasn’t bad looking. Not at all.

The first time Mad Dog had come to the kitchen all dirty and sweaty after grooming the horses, June had refused to let him inside until he’d gone back to wash. Ever since then he’d kept himself clean-shaven and scrubbed, his fingernails neatly pared. He’d even gone to the barber for a haircut, and now the tangled mop was shaped in short gleaming layers. And he wore new clothes that had been tailored to fit a man of his proportions—shoulders as wide as church doors and legs thick with muscle. The simple cut of the coachman’s coat, the top boots, and the leather breeches, or leathers, suited him very well.

Of course, Mad Dog still wasn’t what anyone would call handsome. The narrow, wolfish eyes, the rough-sawn features, the battered nose and mean-set mouth, all added up to a face that would scare even criminals who lurked in dark alleys. But there were moments when he was amused by something and his eyes would twinkle, and June was mortified to feel a glow of attraction.

At the moment, Mad Dog radiated satisfaction as he held the damp little dog against his chest. She couldn’t fathom why having a dog in the house brought him such enormous pleasure.

The creature nestled against his chest with complete trust. A big hand nearly engulfed the narrow head, gently fondling the flaps of his ears. Mesmerized, June watched the idle petting and stroking until Mad Dog asked her again about food.

“Maybe there’s leftover kippers from breakfast?” he suggested. “Alan ain’t particular.”

“I’ll find him something,” she replied curtly.

She went to take an earthen pan from the oven: a simple braised beef she had made to tempt Tuppence’s appetite. The small roast had been seared in a stewpan and baked for three hours in a bath of beef stock and thyme. Later in the process she had added carrots and French beans, letting them cook until they were soft.

After transferring a portion of the meat and vegetables onto a cutting board, she used a pair of forks to shred and mash the fragrant mixture.

Alan sat beside the warm stove and fixed her with a riveted stare, his tongue dangling like a bonnet ribbon.

Mad Dog filled a bowl with water and put it on the floor. He handed another to June and watched as she spooned in the roast mash. When it had cooled sufficiently, he brought it to Alan, who had started to dance and whine in excitement. As soon as the bowl touched the floor, the dog began to eat ravenously, scarcely pausing for air.

“I’ll warrant that’s the best meal he’s ever had in his life,” Mad Dog said. “His belly will drag the floor after this.”

“Will he still catch rats when he’s full?”

“Alan don’t catch rats ’cause he’s ’ungry. It’s his nature, see. Probably wouldn’t eat no rat even if you wanted ’im to. Rats ain’t good eatin’, what I heard.”

“Did the prisoners eat rats at Millbank?” June was driven to ask, tensing in dread at the answer.

Mad Dog blinked in surprise at the question, and then amusement flickered in his eyes. “Nah, no need for that.” He glanced hopefully at the rest of the braised beef. “Is that for dinner?”

“It’s a plain version for Tuppence, to keep her tummy from upending.”

“What o’clock is dinner?”