All of them shivered in the cold. The children's clothing was barely adequate even for the short walk to the guild hall on Threadneedle Street. There was fresh snow falling on the rooftops, and Henry put his hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “Maggie, let me carry you. You can’t walk in this.”

Maggie looked up at him, then down at her feet. She shook her head, and brushed his hand from her shoulder. “No. I want to walk.”

Henry started to say something, but Francis stepped between them and put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Not now, Henry. Let’s get out of this cold, shall we?”

Outnumbered, Henry had no choice but to shrug and lead them on.

Everywhere, people were starting to move about their business. Although most of the shops and stalls were still closed, hawkers selling street foods and cheap trinkets were setting up improvised stands, and the ubiquitous wagons laden with goods threaded their way slowly through the ambling crowds.

The sounds and smells of London assaulted their senses. Outside of the protective cloister of the orphanage, even with the snow and the cold deadening the roar and covering the stench, it was overwhelming. Henry watched the crowds pass, unable to decide what to do. He imagined them losing themselves in the crowd, melting away into the underside of London to eke their living however they could. Every plan he devised ended the same way, in squalor and starvation. He might have risked that for himself, but could never allow it to happen to Francis and Maggie.

Francis was shivering badly, his lips starting to turn blue. Henry grabbed hold of the boy’s sleeve and started to actively push through the crowd. He slithered between groups of men singing carols, still drunk on hot cider, dodged between a blinkered draft-horse pulling a cart full of empty beer barrels and a preacher on an empty grocery crate haranguing the crowd. Here, the timber-built tenements overhang the street itself, built above the shops and warehouses below. The whitewashed plaster was stained yellow and black from smoke. For the most part the people of Cheapside lived one on top of the other, and shoulder to shoulder with their neighbours. Here and there a stone building rose majestic from the crooked wood and mud masses around it: a wealthy merchant's home or the hall of some worshipful guild of some trade or other.

The Merchant Taylors’ Hall was one such stone building. As they approach, it seemed to grow in size and magnificence. The stone walls were smooth, gaps between the blocks so thin you could hardly fit a thumbnail between, and gracefully proportioned. The crooked masses of wattle and daub ended suddenly a dozen yards from the walls, to be replaced with frost-rimed grass, formal hedges, and dormant gardens. Around the building itself, rosemary and other aromatic herbs had been grown into intricate knot patterns. In summer, they would perfume the air and mask the smell of the rest of the city. It was a slice of some other place, some other time in the children's lives, as if placed here by some occult hand. Henry felt a drop of dampness on his cheek, and looked up to see Maggie crying silently into the hem of her borrowed cloak.

“It's beautiful.” Fran took back his sleeve and stopped, turning slowly to take in the place, and breathe the cleaner air. Henry stopped as well. He was impressed by it, but after that initial burst of emotion he felt strangely unmoved. It meant nothing to him. Nothing did, except for the girl and her brother who staggered along beside him. At the iron gates, two footmen spotted them staring and started walking over. One of them shouts “Oi! What are you about? Move on, you're blocking the road.”

They startled, and hurried to the side. Henry waved at the two footmen and said “I'm sorry! We're here to see Master Byford. We're the new apprentices.”

“Oh! That's you, is it?” He drew nearer, and squinted at them. “We'd been told you might be by, but weren't expecting you until later. Come on then; we'll bring you in through the servants entrance, and you can wait in the kitchen. You look like you could all do with feeding.” He patted Henry on the shoulder, and headed back toward the gates. Henry led the others into the courtyard, where the snow had been cleared and the cobbles brushed clean. One of the footmen gave them a boot scraper, and the three scraped mud and worse from their bare feet, and then followed the man around the side of the Hall, and in through the servants entrance.

The kitchens are hot, full of life and bustle. Three large women rushed around, tending enormous pots and roasting spits. The kitchen was as mystifying as an apothecary’s shop, full of jars of mysterious herbs and powders, and piles of meat and vegetables of every imaginable kind. The cooks at the Orphanage had had none of these things; or, if they had, had not wasted them on the children. One of the cooks ushered them onto a couple of uncomfortable wooden chairs, using arms like sides of beef to herd the three through the organised chaos. She rushed off again, and then returned, wordlessly handing each of them a wooden bowl full of thick broth, and a piece of hard bread. Henry ate silently, his shoulders hunched over the bowl. While the other two dove into their food with abandon, Henry couldn’t stop himself from looking over his shoulder every few seconds.

The Taylor's Hall was vast, but Henry' first impressions of it were from the servant's corridors. They were led through a maze of narrow passages from the kitchen to the laundry. The room was large, with a flagstone floor and a drain in the centre. Huge tubs were arrayed around it, most filled with hot water and linens. A stout old woman was stirring the contents with a long-handled paddle, and then scooping them out to be beaten and scrubbed by her assistants. Two of the tubs had only water and suds, and the cook gestured grandly at them. “Can't have you skinny waifs still looking like street urchins when the Master gets back.”

The orphans stripped silently, Maggie on the other side of an improvised partition of hanging sheets, only her feet and the occasional outstretched arm visible. Henry and Francis climbed into the larger tub, and the cook grabbed up a stiff brush, and handed it to Henry. He began scraping off the layers of grime. The brush was coarse, and left him red-raw, but Henry was merciless as he scrubbed himself. He endured, feeling detached. Every time he looked at his friends, he saw them held down, helpless. Every time he closed his eyes, blood was pumping from the witch-finder's hollowed sockets. His stomach cramped, his hands shook and he felt cold despite the steaming water. The wet thump of the laundresses beating the linens was the callous hands of those men falling on him again and again, and he heard the cook's muttered comments at his bruises as if through a pane of glass.

Henry snapped back to the present when Francis wrestled the brush from his hand. His left arm was a weeping graze from shoulder to elbow, and the pain was shocking. He sank into the water, giving his power time to heal the wound before he had to get out. A maid brought them each a change of clothes. Henry dressed mechanically, his hands following patterns learned in another life. The clothes were too large, and clearly second hand, but they were finer by far than the plain homespun they had worn at the orphanage. A real linen shirt and doublet; woollen hose; soft soled leather shoes. The maid fussed with their hair, and when they were ushered back down the corridors to wait in a drawing room, they found the time to look at one another, and wonder at the transformation.

Francis looked every inch a young lord; his clothes fit him almost perfectly, his posture straight, hair falling in loose dark curls. Only his blue eyes seemed troubled, restless, older by far than the rest of him. Maggie looked like a doll, or a painting. Her hair was piled up on her head and tied with a ribbon, her face clean and youthful. She looked lost, as if she was still waking up from a vivid dream, and finding the world still didn't make sense.

They both looked to him, and Henry felt the weight of their expectation. They needed him to take the lead, but he just felt like running away, like hiding in a corner and weeping until the pain stopped. Until he couldn't see that eyeless face any-more; that slack expression. He turned away abruptly and fussed with his unruly ginger hair, staring at his reflection in the polished surface of a silver plate. He looked ashen, worried. Very carefully, he rearranged his expression to one of calm placidity, one feature at a time.

Minutes passed, measured by the slow creep of sunlight over the roofs of adjacent buildings. The door opened, and Byford stepped through. He had changed his clothes as well, rich red velvet over a crisp white twill shirt. He had his sword on his hip, and the long parry-dagger on the opposite side. He stalked around them, circling the children like a dog herding sheep until they were gathered in the centre of the room.

“You three are alive this morning because of my intervention. I want you to know that those men last night were monsters in truth, with no shred of decency. They would have slain every one of you, for no reason greater than their own thirst for power. You need not lose sleep over them.”

Francis stepped towards the tailor, his face red with rage even as he shook with fear. “Father William was a Saint! He was a man of God!”

Henry turned to his friend, slack jawed. How could he still revere that old bastard? Had he not been able to see from where he was being held? Was he unconscious? Henry looked to see if Maggie agreed, but she looked only at her feet.

“Father William was a papist spy, a pervert and a murderer of children. You were not the first to suffer at his hands, just the first to survive. Those cowards at the orphanage stood by and let him do as he wished. Some even helped.” Byford folded his hands behind him, his face a mask. “Ask your Angels if I speak the truth. Ask them to weigh his soul against your precious scriptures. You will find, as I did, that he was no man of peace, or godly love.”

Francis fell back, then Henry could see the glimmering halo as Henry communed with the Angels. He muttered his question, agreed to the price, and the Angels gave him his answer. He turned pale. Henry wondered what portion of Fran’s earthly suffering that answer cost him, what he would have to endure to gain that favour back. Fran’s shoulders dropped, shook once, and then his legs gave out and he fell to the floor, sobbing.

Byford watched him impassively. “A cassock and a hair-shirt does not a good man make. Remember that, young Francis.”

Henry knelt by his friend, put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Be strong. It will be okay.” Henry looked up then, at Byford. He scowled at the man. “It will be okay, right?”

“It will. I agreed that we would take you three on, and we shall. But first, you should know something. I do not represent the Worshipful Guild of Master Taylors.”

“Oh. Really.” Henry grits his teeth, forcing down sudden, irrational anger.

“Yes, although I am a member. Apprenticing with me will be tough. It will be painful, and potentially dangerous. I will not force you to join. However, and this is especially true for you, Henry, and you, Maggie, you are now likely known and hated by certain powerful members of the church. We represent your best chance at avoiding the stake.”

Henry stood up, squaring his shoulders. His knees refused to stop shaking. “Who are you?”

“We are the Second Order of the Knights of the Temple Mount. An order of soldiers and Haemomancers, sworn to the protection of our Queen, long may she reign.”

Maggie stepped in, and raised her voice. “What temple? And what's a Haemomancer?”

Byford smiled, knowing that he had them. “That will all be covered in time, in your lessons. You will have many, as you have a lot to learn. Both about who we are and what we do, and about who you are, and what you do. We will however have to find someone outside our order to train young Francis. Power is a dangerous thing, and ignorant use of power even more so.”

Henry nodded along, but was concerned with more immediate matters. He looked at Maggie and Francis, then back to Byford. “And you'll take care of us? Feed and clothe us? Keep us warm?”

“You will live as well as if you were my own children, provided you work hard. I can be a kind man, but I have not taken you exclusively out of kindness.”

“Very well,” Henry said. The others remained silent, either unable to speak for themselves, or content to let him do it for them.

“Excellent. Before we move on, there is something else we must do. Something of a ritual.”

Byford drew the dagger from his belt.

Henry jumped back as visions of the night before flashed in front of his eyes, colliding with a chair and sending it skittering across the room.

Byford, gingerly, gripped the knife between only his thumb and his forefinger. He held it outstretched, and then placed it on a writing desk under the high window.

“Calm, son. It’s not for me; it’s for you.” He pushed it across the table towards the newcomers. From a drawer at the desk, the tailor drew three empty, stoppered ink bottles. “I know you’ve been through a great deal already, but I must insist on this one thing more before we proceed any further. A small blood sample, only a few drops are needed.” He gestured for Maggie and Francis. “Roll up your sleeves,” he said.

The three of them shared looks of concern.

“And if we don’t?” Henry asked.

“Well, I would completely understand your decision. I would not hold it against you at all. And I would say that you’re welcome to keep the clothes, and that I wish you luck. But if you would like to stay here, you must do this. I’m sorry to say, it is entirely non-negotiable.”

“Why?” asked Maggie.

“This too, you will learn in time. This is a dangerous life you’ve been born into, and this is… an insurance policy, of sorts. Every one of our order has done it, and it allows us to find one another in times of need.”

Henry looked at the other two, and saw they were waiting for him. He hesitated, not liking the idea of the other two having to hurt themselves. Was this worth it? He was out of his depth.

He was still flailing for an answer when Maggie reached out for the square bottle. She pulled the stopper out, and then placed it back on the table. She took the knife, pressed it against her skin until it drew a little blood and let some of it drip into the container. She never hesitated. Her hands never wavered. She didn’t spill a drop.

After she wedged the stopper back in and handed the sample back to her new master, Henry did the same thing. He still felt numb to pain, so it was no effort at all to open himself up, but it took concentration not to heal, or reabsorb the blood before it had a chance to drip into the bottle. He clenched his fist and focused on his breathing. When the vial was full, he relaxed and the bleeding stopped. He returns the vessel to Byford.

Francis was last. He dragged the blade weakly across his skin a few times, causing small scrapes and scratches, a little cut here and there, but nothing deep enough to bleed. He looked up from his irritated arm to see that the others were all looking at him, and he closed his eyes and pressed the blade in too deep. His blood spilled out onto the floor and his shoes before he even had a chance to put down the knife and pick up the vial. Henry and Maggie started toward him, but Byford intervened, putting himself between them.

It wasn't long before the small bottle was full. Francis’ blood coated his fingers, and he nearly dropped the sample on the floor, fumbling weakly as he tried to push the stopper home.

Finally, he corked the vessel. Byford reached out, taking the knife, and cutting his own hand, then grasped the boy's arm and pressed his slashed palm over the injury. When he removed it a second later, Francis’ cut had closed, replaced with an ugly scar.

Francis was pale. Maggie darted around Byford and supported him on her shoulder.

Byford stepped back, giving them some space. He shook his head at the young Saint. “Well. Now that that is over, we can proceed. The three of you have the rest of the day to grow comfortable with your new situation. I will seek a teacher for young Francis, though that may take some time. Henry and Maggie, you will start your training in the morning.”

“Maggie?” Henry asked. He looked at her, eyebrows raised. She just sat frozen, doll-like in her frilly dress, her expression unreadable.

Byford smirked. “Of course.”

Francis looked at her sharply, and said “Wait, what?”

Byford looked at Francis, then at Henry. His eyes widened slightly, and the smug smile slipped off his face. He turned to Maggie. “I am sorry, I hadn’t realized that you kept your abilities so secret.”

Maggie nodded mechanically, and forced a brittle smile. “I… It’s alright. I would have had to tell them now anyway. Uh, it...” She looked intently at Francis. “I hope it won’t come between us?”

Francis was pale. His Angels flickered around his head, just a play of light, almost imperceptible. He took a deep breath, and ran his fingers through his hair, then shook his head. The light vanished. “I’m, uh, I’m surprised, that’s all. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would see me differently.” She made a shooing gesture at Henry. “It’s different for you. You’re boys. People see one of you running around on the rooftops and getting into fights, and they put it down to your age. Me...” She tailed off, pressed her lips together and looked away.

Byford stepped into the silence. “Don’t judge her. Trust me, you don’t have the right.” Francis opened his mouth as if to argue, and Byford raised a finger. “Wag your tongue at me, boy, and I will pluck it out. Female witches are persecuted with a vigour that makes the risks we men face pale into insignificance. Maggie is incredibly brave to even be here.”

Francis wisely shut his mouth. He looked at Maggie, his brow knitted, then shut his eyes and took a series of long breaths. “I understand. I think. I just… wish you had trusted me.”

Maggie choked a sob, biting down on her knuckle. “I am so sorry, Fran.”

Henry just sat there, stunned, wondering how different things would have been if she had trusted him, how much he had wished that he had someone to talk to about all of this. But, at the same time, he understood the terror and anxiety. If he’d had a choice, he may never have told Fran and Maggie about his abilities either.