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“You ’eard the magistrate,” Marsden said, bringing him back to the present with an impatient shove.

On leaden feet, Samuel followed after the Blind Beak. No matter how he viewed it, he could envision no possible means of regaining his freedom. The magistrate knew him by name, he’d all but admitted to his crime, and even if Marsden were to ease his grip sufficiently for Samuel to slip from his grasp, Samuel remained handcuffed, and there were undoubtedly too many of the Blind Beak’s men in the vicinity for Samuel to make good his escape.

Chapter 4

Compared to the Brown Bear’s shadowy front room, the parlor where the Blind Beak conducted business at Number Four Bow Street was flooded with light. When Samuel entered, the late-afternoon sun was streaming through the small-paned windows, reflecting off the ornate mirror that hung above half a dozen chairs positioned against the wall. Each of the chairs was occupied, and more spectators stood clustered near the door. Samuel did not know the identity of any of the men or women, but since the man seated on the end of the row of chairs appeared to be recording the proceedings with more vigor than the magistrate’s clerk himself, Samuel guessed that the fellow represented The Public Advertiser or one of the other newspapers known to spread the word regarding the capture of London’s criminals.

Samuel cringed at the thought. The man had yet to raise his head from the copious notes he was taking, but when he did, he would no doubt study the young pickpocket Marsden had brought before the Blind Beak’s table so that he might include a full description of Samuel along with a condemning report of his morning’s activity. Samuel forced his feet forward. Had it truly been only this morning that he and Charlie had left the safety of the alley intent upon stealing a pocket watch? It felt like two lifetimes ago. And his wait in the anteroom before entering the parlor of this imposing house accounted for at least one of those lifetimes.

Marsden had not left his side all afternoon. Samuel might have been expected to feel some measure of satisfaction in knowing that the runner considered him wily enough to require constant supervision, but Samuel could not seem to muster so much as one drop of gratification. It was a troubling observation. Almost as troubling as his vacillating emotions. But he had long since given up attempting to understand his unsettled feelings. He simply knew that over the last few hours, the waves of fear and regret he’d experienced at the Brown Bear had turned to bitterness.

How had his life become an endless cycle of rising in the morning to search out an unsuspecting wealthy lady or gentleman, stealing what was rightfully theirs, hawking those items, and then handing the money to Thrasher in exchange for a piece of bread or bowl of watery gruel and the use of a flee-infested straw mattress that barely passed for a bed? It was a miserable, soulless life, yet he’d never been offered anything more. It was all well and good for the Blind Beak, Marsden, and his ilk to condemn Samuel—and those like him—for their underhanded activities, but they’d never been so hungry that the pain in their stomach made every movement hurt or so destitute that sleeping on the ground beneath the shelter of Westminster Bridge was considered a luxury.

“Next!” The Blind Beak’s voice rang out from where he sat behind a large, oblong table.

Marsden walked Samuel to the spot an alleged highwayman had stood moments before.

The magistrate looked up, his blind eyes not focusing on anything in particular. “Your full name?”

“Samuel Ross,” Samuel said.

“Ah, Sammy!” A spark of interest entered the magistrate’s voice. “Your turn to stand before me has come, then.”

“So it would seem, m’lord.”

The magistrate’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his black band. “Do I detect some fight left in you, lad?”

“If by fight ya mean anger at th’ unfairness in th’ world, then I daresay there is,” Samuel said.

“Then this is the time to rid yourself of it.” The Blind Beak leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. “Such anger will serve you poorly.”

“Easily said fer a gentleman with position and wealth.” The words escaped before Samuel could call them back.

Marsden issued him a warning glare, and the man seated on the far chair stopped his scribbling, his quill frozen an inch above his paper. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the rustle of a lady’s gown.

“I am disappointed in you, Sammy,” the Blind Beak said. “But you are young, and I shall do you the service of attributing your shortsightedness to your lack of years rather than to a hardened heart.” The continued silence in the room strained like a tightening rope. “If you believe unfairness in life is limited to those with little or no means, you are wholly and tragically mistaken. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that every person in this room has suffered a severe setback of some sort at one time or another.” He paused as though waiting for someone to refute his claim.

No one spoke.

At Samuel’s side, Marsden shifted his feet. Samuel glanced at him. Was Samuel expected to respond to the Blind Beak’s comment? Marsden’s gaze was fixed upon the wall beyond the Blind Beak’s shoulder, his expression unreadable.

Quashing his warring emotions, Samuel managed a terse, “Yes, m’lord.”

The Blind Beak’s frown was instant. “I am not seeking a meaningless civil response, Sammy.”

“No, m’lord.”

With a growl, the Blind Beak pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He set his hands upon the desk and leaned across it. “Listen to me, Samuel Ross,” he said. “And listen well. I would not have wished to be rendered blind at the age of nineteen. But I have refused to allow my lack of sight to hold me back from what I wish to accomplish in life, and that is precisely the state of mind you must adopt if you ever hope to amount to anything more than a petty thief.”

Samuel clenched his fists. “Me attitude don’t matter one bit anymore. Once I’m sent to th’ Old Bailey, me opportunity fer change has passed.”

“False!” the Blind Beak barked. “Even if it occurs on one’s deathbed and only effects the heart, there is always an opportunity for change.” He gestured toward the door leading to the anteroom where Samuel and others had waited for so long. “Almost every day, my home is filled with men and women who have chosen poorly and with employees whose job it is to prevent those people from inflicting pain upon others because of their misguided decisions. I witness the need for change—drastic, all-encompassing change—every day.” His voice lowered. “And so, I repeat: While a person lives and breathes, there is always a way to change.”

Memories from his own wretched existence flashed before Samuel’s eyes. “Not fer the likes of me, m’lord.”

“Especially for the likes of you.” The Blind Beak turned his head slightly. “Marsden, what do we have on Samuel Ross?”

“There’s no mention of ’im in our books, Sir John.”