The Soper's Street Chapel was timber-built, and permanently shadowed by the looming three and four-floor tenements on each side. It was humble, as churches went, but the windows were glass and the roof was sound. As they crowded through the high doors at the front, the inside was barely warmer than the icy street. Children scatteredd among the benches, or stood and stamped their feet, trying to blow warmth into their freezing fingers. Henry huddled with Maggie in the same spot they always took, near the back and by the doors. Francis headed up to where the choristers sat, behind the pulpit. The lay-priests, including the deacon from the graveyard, moved down the aisles to take their places, and Father William, the parish priest, emerged from the vestry with a man in a fine blue doublet with slashed sleeves. The tailor, presumably, and the same man that Henry had seen the night before.

Father William was ancient and morbidly obese. Henry had heard the younger priests say that Father William was old enough to remember the time before the dissolution, and had bent his knee rather than face execution.

Henry studied the tailor, who remained easy to spot, being the only person in the hall not wearing black. He towered over the other adults. His hair was oiled, and his beard short and neat, but his eyes darted around the room, constantly watchful. The man didn’t look like any tailor Henry had ever seen, but then he was dressed well enough, and Henry hadn’t had much opportunity to engage with tailors.

As Father William started to heave his way up to the pulpit, so everyone quickly found somewhere to sit and settled down. It was a trial for the old man to climb the stairs, so they had time. The tailor walked down the aisle to sit at the very back, near to the doors. As he passed, Henry could see the rapier and basket-hilted dagger belted at his waist. He unbuckled them before sitting, but placed them close by his feet. Once he was settled, the man looked up, and made eye contact with him. Henry immediately dropped his gaze, turning back to face the front. As much as he was unsure about wanting to be chosen, he didn't want to sabotage his chances by being too bold.

The sermon buzzed on in the background, and Henry tuned it out, as he always did. He read and reread the memorials engraved into the wooden floorboards of the church, only listening enough to know when to stand, and when to kneel on the thin cushion in front of him. The room warmed quickly in the presence of so many bodies. The heat was the only thing he enjoyed about attending mass, but soon his too-narrow doublet was making him uncomfortable, the small linen ruff itching at his neck.

After a few minutes Henry could see the choir standing. Francis stood in the centre of the group, and as they faced the congregation, the pulpit and chancel was illuminated as the rest of the room turned dark. The choir-boys glowed gold as Father William spreads his hands wide, his Angels appearing above him. All use of Angelic power comes at a price; Henry didn’t know what the good Father must have sacrificed to pay for this, but he is sure it wasn’t breakfast. A magical breeze danced around the choristers, stirring their surplices and playing with locks of their hair while they sang the opening hymns.

As it does every Christmas, the light-show got a gasp of admiration and wonder from the congregation. Henry, however, was underwhelmed. While the congregation could only see the miraculous light and the gentle touch of the Angels, Henry could see Father William’s intentions in that light, his grasping hands and unsavoury desires. He snuck a look back at the strange tailor, to see how he was reacting to the display, but found the man looking straight back at him.

He was rooted to his pew, suddenly gripped with terror. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Why would the tailor be looking at him? Did he know what Henry saw? The leering face of Father William, his probing fingers in that playful breeze? He bit his lip until he tasted blood, and the world came into greater focus. His hearing sharpened until he could hear every shift of weight in the people around him, every beat of their hearts. He could hear the crackle of consumption in little Walter's lungs, the whistle of a clogged artery in Father William's lecherous heart, but behind him, the tailor’s breathing and heartbeat were as slow and even as if he were asleep.

As the service wound down, Henry found himself looking for a way out, but the Priests stood and moved down the aisles. The only ways in or out were through the main doors, or to somehow make a run for it through the vestry. Henry stood with the other boys on his row, his knees shaking, and walked dumbly down towards the main doors.

He nearly made it. A large hand pressed into the small of his back, and propelled him around in a tight turn. The lay-priest kept shoving him, steering him back to the tailor. “Here is the boy you mentioned, Master Byford. He is a bit of a knave, but good at heart. Strong too, and quick to learn.”

“I'll be the judge of that. Come here, boy.” Byford didn't wait for Henry to obey; he took a quick step forward, and clamped his powerful left hand down on Henry's shoulder. Gripping him by the jaw he turned Henry’s face this way and that. He thrust his calloused fingers, thankfully clean and immaculately manicured, into Henry’s mouth and checked his teeth. Henry managed to resist biting down, barely. Byford looked deep into Henry’s eyes, then he prodded and pinched him in the arms and chest, and Henry felt a sharp pain in his arm, like a splinter. He recoiled. The man released him and crossed his arms. Henry sees him surreptitiously check something in his hand; an iron pin.

Henry went cold, his fingers and toes numb and tingling. A witch-hunter. He had to be. Why stab him with a pin, other than to see if he bleeds? But Henry was hemmed in by priests on all sides now, all looking expectantly at the stranger.

“So, what do you think, Master Byford?” asked Father William, now behind Henry. “Is he… what you are looking for?” Henry briefly considers trying to break past the fat bastard, and escape. The old priest’s health and powers were clearly on the wane, but even so, he’d almost certainly be more than a match for Henry, who was still trying to puzzle out exactly what he was capable of. He’d likely be burnt to a crisp before he reached the doors.

The stranger, Byford, studied the boy, and the priest, too. His expression was measured, impassive, but Henry felt an aura of contempt emanating from him. Some emotions are impossible to hide. The pin had disappeared as quickly as if he'd conjured it from thin air.

“He is…” The stranger began, then trailed off. Henry’s mouth went dry. The room seemed to turn around him. “...scrawny.” The man concluded. “And short for his age. But he has a lively look about him. I may take him.”

“And the other? Young Willoughby?”

“I'll have to think on that. He's a good looking boy, but I'm not sure we have room for a second apprentice.”

Apprentice? Henry looked between the adults. None of them look worried, or horrified. Indeed, the priests all looked quite pleased. Master Byford still looked carefully blank, but it was now the polite neutral face of a gambler or a merchant, not the icy stare of a witch-finder.

Father Williams sucked his wooden teeth and nodded. “Young Willoughby is a very good young boy, obedient and clever. He also has a sister a year younger than he, and no means to support her. If you could find a place for him, we may be able to provide a … discount?”

“Hmph. I’ll consider it. One moment, please.”

The man strode out of the building, and the priests started conversing amongst themselves in low tones. Henry escaped the crowd, and went to stand with Francis. He rubbed his arm absently, where the pin went in. “That was... strange.”

“How so? It sounded like you’ve found a master, Henry.” Francis smiled at him, but there is a tinge of jealousy and sadness in his voice. “I think you'll make a fine tailor.”

“Might be you as well.”

Francis gave a one-shouldered shrug, and gestured as if sweeping the comment away. “I don't know about that; he hasn't even looked at me this whole time.”

“Consider yourself lucky. He's creepy, Francis. I don't like it.”

Francis snorted. “Stop complaining! Think of it, a place with a real wood fire, proper meals and a secure future.”

“Nothing is ever secure, Fran.” Henry turned to listen as the tailor returned.

The master tailor smiled broadly at the priests. “We've decided to take them all, on a probationary basis. Turns out there is a need for an apprentice seamstress, and also a clerk's boy. The children will have to stay here for the night however, until we have arranged suitable accommodation.”

Father William smiled, his fat, ancient face creasing up as he led the tailor away, but the expression never reached his eyes. “Excellent. I'll let the Bishop know at once. He'll be most pleased. Will you be paying by cash, or with a letter of credit?”

“Clerks boy.” Francis' voice was small, shocked. “Well, God provides. And we'll soon all be out of the Orphanage, finally. And together.”