"Do you know about the poor little missing boy in the poster?" asked Georgie, in a way guaranteed to be understood by no one who did not already understand. Luckily, both his aunt and father were present at the asking, because some follow-up questions and interjections by Annabel and John finally led to following less than satisfactory answer from their father but also the much more satisfying answer from their aunt.

"I don't remember anything about it…I'd have been around the same age as the little boy," Michael told them. And then he tried to decide if his children needed reassurance because they were upset over a long lost child. Before he could, Jane chimed in.

"I do remember something of it," she said. "There was a big to-do over all us children who had parents working at the bank. They didn't tell me, of course, because they thought I was too young. But they were scared some kidnapper was out to hold bank children hostage for money. They never let us out alone, gave us speeches on staying away from strangers. Only no money was ever demanded about little Richie. That's what the newspapers called him, 'Poor Little Richie'. I don't remember that he was ever found." She did not share that the newspapers liked to speculate what horrible end had come to the small boy; she didn't want nightmares over it.

"The poster called him Richard Dawes, III," John said. "Is he the son or…or grandson of the bank manager?"

"Isn't the horrid Mr. Wilkins the manager?" asked Annabel, "But it used to be Mr. Dawes?"

"Mr. Dawes was the manager, yes, and Mr. Wilkins, my very kind boss who we are not going to be rude to, has taken on his duties. He has grown too old to manage."

"Richard Dawes, III was his son," their aunt proclaimed authoritatively, no matter that the man seemed far too old to have such a young son instead of grandson. She did not share what the newspapers printed about the boy's young mother, either, of which 'gold digger' was probably the kindest. It did the woman no favors that she was not native to England, either. Instead, Jane stuck to the bare facts about the young son. "He would have been in charge, I suppose, if he hadn't gone missing."

"And they never found him?" demanded Annabel, who had an expression like she would have liked to march in to see those investigators and berate them for slothfulness. "Did they look everywhere? Perhaps he was kidnapped by pirates and taken to…to Australia! Perhaps he escaped and was picked up by a poor family who didn't know who he was but they were kind to him and raised him as their own son! Perhaps…perhaps he was sold into slavery!"

The last thought came about because it happened to quite a few heroes in books they read, along with pirates and kind strangers. It was all too true of a story really, but more likely to happen because poor families could not afford another mouth to feed. Annabel had a notion of this, but not a true understanding; it was not exactly something discussed with children.

"They checked the ports for pirates," Jane assured Annabel, "And the posters were everywhere. In all the newspapers, too. No one could have found him and not known; and with that reward they would tell if they did. And they checked the new two-year-old slaves; I'm certain they did. It was mentioned in the paper, and your grandparents didn't want me to know anything about it so I listened at the door. There was another to-do because no one liked to think it would be that easy to have one's own children stolen and sold into slavery by another person. There are all sorts of checks to prevent that. And Poor Little Richie wasn't among the new two-year-olds anyway, and they searched all over."

"They should investigate Mr. Wilkins," said John, just as fiercely as Annabel. "I'll bet he did him in so he could be in charge instead of him."

"My kind boss Mr. Wilkins," said Michael, rather pointedly with the 'kind boss', "Would have been a young child himself then." So that was rather unlikely, the children reluctantly had to agree.

"I still say the boy looks like Jack," said Georgie.

"The boy had blond hair and he's a year younger," John protested, half-heartedly because Georgie would keep on insisting and it was tiresome to argue. Facts never swayed him, he just stuck by his 'same smile' stance.

"Maybe his hair changed colors," Georgie suggested, by way of being different this time.

"Hair doesn't just change color," John answered with all the scorn an older brother can muster when correcting a younger sibling.

"It can, actually," said Michael. "My hair was much redder when I was a boy; it got darker as I got older.

"See," Georgie said, leaping on that; "I'll bet Jack's hair was blond when he was a boy, and then it changed when he got big.

"It didn't," was their aunt's disappointing answer, "I remember seeing Jack as a boy and he had dark hair then too. But he did have the same smile."

The end result was that the children knew a bit more about Richard Dawes, III, but not enough to satisfy them. The mystery, however, was eclipsed by the worry over losing the house and needing to find the bank shares. It had been horrible when their dad had to explain why he was so upset with them for seeing Mr. Wilkins.

Michael and Jane had searched the bank, and the house top to bottom. Mr. Wilkins assured them, with true sympathy and not horridly at all, that there were no records of the shares held by the bank itself. It was coming time to face facts. They were going to lose the house. It could get worse; it wasn't going to look good that an employee of the bank couldn't keep up with his own payments. Michael didn't think Mr. Wilkins likely to hold it against him, but he could. If Michael lost his job, and his house…money might get tight. And even if he kept his job…losing the house he and his sister grew up in, his own parents' house…that was a blow that struck hard.

They would have to put a brave face on things, for the children, to lessen the blow to them. They would move in with Jane, and space would be tight, and things might be gloomy for a while…but they would be together and they would still all be free. They would even be able to take Ellen with them, because the government was generous when a Citizen chose to keep on a slave who was of advanced years.

They would make do. But, with a bit of luck, they did have until midnight on Friday to find those shares. Not a lot of time since Friday was almost upon them, but it was some time at least. Jane had an especially full plate. She was trying to get rooms ready for everyone all the while insisting it won't be needed, and she was helping Michael search, and she was working with SPRUCE to try and better the lot of slaves. She had actually managed to get Jack's account published in the paper, and they were expecting some kind of response by the public, good and bad. Hopefully the bad would not involve rocks and their windows. Again. So she was very busy and everyone was glad for Mary Poppins. If they had had to look after the children on top of everything else…well, it was good to have someone trusted explicitly to keep them entertained and out from underfoot and out of mischief. Even if their talk later of China bowls and upside down houses and newts did stir something uncertain inside Jane; memories of games that she must have imagined so well they almost really had happened…

Well, there was nothing wrong with remembering a bit of childish fun. Let the children play.

That Thursday morning, Jane almost didn't go to the SPRUCE office. It was bright and early that the office opened, in deference to the class of people it served, and Jane was a naturally early riser and so usually one of the first people in who would busily set about unlocking the doors and greeting any who entered. But the night before she had been up late, first with Michael to give the attic another thorough look through, and then in her own place while she tried to figure out how they were to fit an entire house full of memorabilia into her tiny flat.

She at least did have two guest rooms, which would be space enough for the children, if they shared, and Michael. According to society, Ellen should then be given the tiny space by the kitchen that Jane actually used for extra storage. In actual fact, Jane was busily arranging for her to share her own room in a bed better suited to a woman of Ellen's age. It would be strange for all of them; Jane giving up her own personal space and everyone else giving up…everything. They had already moved a lot over and were making plans to store the bigger furniture they weren't ready to part with; they didn't want to give up but it would be easier if worst came to worst if they were already half moved.

The end result was that Jane had a busy day and stayed up later than usual, but she woke at her usual time. She lay in bed then, trying to decide if it wasn't a good day to lie in, especially knowing how difficult the next couple of days would be. But by that point she was properly awake, and half planning out how things would go, so she supposed she might as well get up and get on with things.

Even then, she almost didn't go to SPRUCE because her plate was already so full. But it felt nice to get away from her own problems for a bit to deal with someone else's. So she did go. And she would be forever grateful that she did.

She arrived at almost the same moment as a little girl, who had come at a run to bang at their door.

"It's that horrid policeman, Miss!" she said, all out of breath and indignant and half in tears. "The slave didn't do nothing, was just turning off the lights, and he said he'd show him what an over harsh punishment really looks like, and I think he means to kill him!"

Jane didn't wait to get a clearer understanding of the story because she understood too well already; this was the reaction to the article in the paper and it would be a hundred times worse than rocks through their windows if she couldn't do something about it.

The girl led Jane back again along a maze of streets, past a soup kitchen, past an apple vendor's cart, and all the while Jane told herself it might not be Jack. And all the while she knew it must be. And it had taken time for the girl to find her and taken time to return and…beatings don't have to take a long time to administer. It doesn't take a long time for serious damage to be applied either. By the time she got there, there was every chance that Jane would have no chance to intervene. If the officer applied ten strikes…if he applied more…

Jane did not believe the girl's fear, that Jack would actually be killed. But she did fear for him. She had too much experience with SPRUCE in what people tried to get away with, within the confines of the law, and exactly how much wiggle room there was that allowed for some truly horrendous results. 'Accidental' permanent injuries from blows that 'missed' or hit that unfortunate bit too hard or… or…

The girl led Jane through a crowd of onlookers at a street corner. They liked to put public corrections at street corners; more people to see and be reminded to stay within the law. And more humiliation for those corrected.

And there was a slave, and there was a police officer. And the slave was Jack.

Jack's morning had started off fairly normal. If anything, he'd had a bit of a spring to his step. Knowing that Jones was gone and was never coming back lifted a weight he hardly had known was there. It wasn't just that he'd feared being hurt; he'd feared his friends being hurt, too. Not that everything was now safe and perfect; Jones had been the worst of their masters but he was not the only one who ever pushed past what was considered 'acceptable'. And even those by the books sorts could be horrible to deal with. It was bad enough getting hit hard because someone bore a grudge; sometimes it actually hit worse when the person doing the hitting didn't care. As if slaves weren't really humans, just things that required certain maintenance to run correctly. Still, Jones had been unbearable whenever he showed, and knowing he was gone forever…well, Jack could not help but feel that morning blessed.

And he held onto that elation right up to the point when a rather irate police officer was flagging him down in the vicinity of a certain apple vendor.

"Slave 556021," the officer all but growled, waving a rolled-up newspaper at Jack as if he were a wayward puppy. Cautiously, and feeling his good day melting away even as his heart sank somewhere among his toes, Jack fought the instinct to hop on his bicycle and flee. He was too smart to run; there was nowhere to run and trying to escape an oncoming correction only ever made things worse. So, with all his instincts screaming at him to get out of there, knowing something truly unpleasant was about to happen to him, he nonetheless stopped his business with the nearest lamp, gave the officer as submissive and contrite a look as he could manage, and answered, "Yes, sir?" just as if he'd been politely called by name and not ordered about by his number.

The officer unfurled the paper. It wasn't the front page, nor even a particularly impressive article; they had not included any of the pictures they'd taken. The headline was to the point but evocative: Medieval Brutality and the Modern Slave. Jack wasn't given the chance to actually read past that, the officer aggressively grabbing Jack by the collar, shoving the paper so close against his face that it was impossible to make out more than a few words: SPRUCE, police, excessive.

"I show you a kindness, not reporting your cheek, and this is how you repay me?!" His voice was low, barely contained malice within his tone, and the hand holding Jack firmly was shaking minutely.

"I'm sorry, sir," Jack answered contritely, because really there was nothing else much he could answer. He could hardly argue that the man's 'kindness' was anything but, or that he'd told nothing but the truth in the article. Jack had faith in Jane Banks, if not SPRUCE itself, to not exaggerate for her cause. Not that it really mattered what Jack said. He had no doubt the officer meant to apply new lashes on old no matter what Jack said. The only real question was how many and with what implement. If Jack remained docile and subservient, the crowd that was slowly starting to gather about the scene might work in his favor. And if the officer had gotten in trouble of the article…and for him to be this angry he almost certainly must have gotten in trouble over it, then that was bad for Jack but also good. It might mean the officer wouldn't want to risk a further reprimand, as might happen with an unjust correction. The officer needed a reason to beat Jack, and that reason couldn't simply be 'I don't like you'.

Unfortunately, there was a ready-made reason he had based entirely on the article.

"Telling lies," the officer growled, "is a punishable offence." Telling lies was the most common infraction a slave could commit. Or more accurately, it was the most common infraction a slave was accused of; and being accused in this case was almost always the same as being guilty. It boiled down to a free Citizen's word against a slave's and the Citizen was believed by default. Of course, a slave could file a complaint…and still be disbelieved and maybe get extra punishment for lying about lying.

On the other hand, if a physical correction were being applied, lying was one of the lesser offences; the maximum penalty was two lashes; three if the slave spoke back or denied. Lying was an easy accusation to make against a slave but if a Citizen really wanted to see a slave beaten hard they'd have to try harder to find something else against them. Jack intended to give no fault. He'd rather let the officer take his anger out with two lashes than fight back and receive something closer to ten.

Of course, there was every possibility the officer was angry enough to not care if the law was on his side. It happened. Jack felt his own heartbeat picking up as he stared at the ground, frantically trying to work out how to escape and knowing all the while there was no escape. He tried to calm his own breathing and it was all too easy to act the part of contrite slave when he was quietly panicking, knowing that what happened next was entirely in the officer's hands.

The officer didn't give Jack the option to walk for himself, just dragged him along by his collar and leaving it up to Jack to do his best to keep his footing and not get dragged along. He managed for the most part; he did trip at a curb and had a moment of being painfully wrenched by the neck, but he found his feet quickly. They were going to the same correction post as before, at a street corner. A crowd followed. The sort who would follow that kind of scene were not the sort Jack preferred; he could hear several words of encouragement to the officer to put the slave in its place. He tried not to listen, to concentrate on walking without falling, to concentrate on after. This would not be pleasant but likely it would be just a couple of lashes and Jack having to act contrite and then it would be done.

The officer finally let go of the collar when they reached the post and Jack had a very brief moment to steady himself.

"Clothing off," the officer ordered. Not just top off, this time. He wanted this to be as horrible as he could make it. Though in all honesty, Jack was too used to forced nudity for it to be much more than an annoyance. It was a chilly morning.

Jack neither took his time nor rushed to get his clothes off. He folded each garment neatly as he went and draped them over the stocks. Someone in the crowd whistled when his pants went down, but for the most part fear of being judged by their peers as a slave lover stopped anything worse. Once that was done, he approached the post without instruction. Actually putting his arms up to the manacles would probably be a step too far; they all knew it's where this was heading but the officer hadn't actually instructed him to yet. Anticipating orders could be seen as a form of cheek, a sort of 'I don't even care' attitude. Instead he bowed his head and waited.

The officer let him wait. Maybe he wanted Jack to anticipate the beating that was coming. Maybe he, himself, now that he was there and in the position of power, was having to think about what he was about to do. There were rules. He was likely already in trouble with his superiors. How far did he intend to take this?

Jack kept his eyes down and worked hard to not squirm, to not act either too defiant nor too scared, because he did have his pride. To not act on that kernel of deep resentment blossoming behind the fear. Because Jones was a newt, and things were supposed to be better, and now this. Because his fate was never in his hands. Because this was unfair.

The world was not fair. All he could do was survive as best he could and try to make the bad bits no worse than they have to be.

"Hands up," the officer said, after making him and the crowd wait for almost a full minute. Jack did as he was told, felt the cold bite of metal as his arms were latched into place, holding him in position to be beaten. The officer took out his notepad. So this was going to be by the books. Unfair, and cruel, but by the books.

"For the offence of telling lies," said the officer, "I assign you the maximum penalty of two lashes. For the offence of conspiracy…" Jack couldn't help the sharp gasp in at that. Conspiracy could mean a lot of things. Usually it meant joining up with other slaves to plan some wrongdoing. At the heart of most systems of slavery was a fear of rebellion. The penalty for conspiracy was only surpassed by actually causing harm to a Citizen or a Citizen's belongings. A serious accusation. Not one that could idly be made, either. "The maximum of six lashes."

"I contest that offence," Jack said instantly, head jerking up in spite of himself to look the officer in the face, if not actually in his eyes. The sheer malice in the man's expression had Jack looking down again. He tried to judge the crowd of onlookers from the corner of his eyes. Sometimes, common Citizens would protest if they saw an unfair punishment being enacted. Sometimes. Sometimes he'd get a crowd of sadists who'd rather watch an unfair beating than help the innocent. This early morning crowd was mostly quiet. Waiting to see how things played out. Not siding with the officer. Not siding with Jack.

"You contest?" the officer demanded, sounding a mixture of shocked and coldly furious. "You object? I have my proof right here!" He waved the newspaper at Jack again.

"I contest," Jack said to the man's feet, because there was a very delicate balance going on and he needed to present himself as respectful and meek without backing down and admitting fault. "I did not write that newspaper article. If I answered questions from a free Citizen, I gave the truth as I understood it. Conspiracy requires a purposeful gathering of slaves with the intention of causing harm. I met with no slaves to create that article and intended no harm."

"I hear your protest and deny it!" the officer answered. "And I add another lash for cheek! Do keep going; shall we make it an even ten?"

"You have the power to do as you please," Jack answered, head still bowed. But then he turned it, to look up. The officer intended to hit him ten times no matter what Jack said or did. Jack could see that. Jack could be as subservient and grovel all he liked; it would not soften anything. But maybe facts could. So he looked him right in the eyes and said, "But I will contest this punishment afterwards. And it will be in someone else's hands to judge if it was just."

"Ten lashes, then," the officer all but growled. He pulled out his lash. It was a different one from before; doubtless still within the allowed dimensions but it must have been right on the edge. It was knotted already with three heavy knots along the length of it. Jack waited to see if the crowd of onlookers would intervene or protest in his favor.

The crowd was silent. Not cheering the officer. Not condemning him.

"One," said the officer.

The first hit lashed across his old bruises with enough force behind it to slam Jack bodily against the pole and make him lose his footing. There was a moment of intense pain, and a ringing sound in Jack's ears, as he struggled to regain his balance, his equilibrium. To find the strong place inside himself to push past. He could taste blood and the world was blurred. And if that was a single lash, he did not want to imagine what nine more were going to feel like.

"Two," said the officer. Jack braced for an equal blow, eyes squeezed shut. It didn't fall. Instead, there was a disturbance, a noise of protests. Not the crowd protesting the beating. A person shoving through them. And then a voice, loud and clear, that Jack was not expecting.

"I contest this beating." That was Jane Banks' voice. And Jack felt his knees going weak again, this time not in fear or even in relief, but from a tentative but pervasive hope.