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popped out behind her, and the door to no. 13 Hercules Buildings opened and Mr. Blake stepped out. Miss Pelham shrank back. Mr. Blake had never been anything but civil to her—indeed, he nodded at her now—yet he made her nervous. His glassy gray eyes always made her think of a bird staring at her, waiting to peck.
    â€œFar as I know, this is Mr. Astley’s house, not yours,” Maggie said cheekily.
    Miss Pelham turned to Jem. “Jem, what is this girl doing here? She’s not a friend of yours, I trust?”
    â€œShe—she’s made a delivery.” Even in the Piddle Valley, Jem had not been a good liar.
    â€œWhat did she deliver? Four-day-old fish? Laundry that’s not seen a lick of lye?”
    â€œNails,” Maggie cut in. “I’ll be bringing ’em by reg’lar, won’t I, Jem? You’ll be seein’ lots more o’ me.” She stepped sideways off Miss Pelham’s front path and into her front garden, where she followed the tiny hedge around in its pointless circle, running a hand along the top of it.
    â€œGet out of my garden, girl!” Miss Pelham cried. “Jem, get her out of there!”
    Maggie laughed, and began to run around the hedge, faster and faster, then leapt over it into the middle, where she danced around the pruned bush, sparring at it with her fists while Miss Pelham cried, “Oh! Oh!” as if each blow were striking her.
    Jem watched Maggie box the leafy ball, tiny leaves showering to the ground, and found himself smiling. He too had been tempted to kick at the absurd hedge so different from the hedgerows he was used to. Hedges in Dorsetshire were made for a reason, to keep animals in fields or off of paths, and grown of prickly hawthorn and holly, elder and hazel and whitebeam, woven through with brambles and ivy and traveler’s joy.
    A tap on the window upstairs brought Jem back from Dorsetshire. His mother was glaring down at him and making shooing motions at Maggie. “Er, Maggie—weren’t you going to show me something?” Jem said. “Your—your father, eh? My pa wanted me to—to agree on the price.”
    â€œThat’s it. C’mon, then.” Maggie ignored Miss Pelham, who was still shouting and swatting ineffectively at her, and pushed through the ring of hedge without bothering to jump it this time, leaving behind a gap of broken branches.
    â€œOh!” cried Miss Pelham for the tenth time.
    As Jem moved to follow Maggie into the street, he glanced at Mr. Blake, who had remained still and quiet, his arms crossed over his chest, while Maggie had her fun with the hedge. He did not seem bothered by the noise and drama. Indeed, they had all forgotten he was there, or Miss Pelham would not have cried “Oh!” ten times and Maggie would not have beaten the bush. He was looking at them with his clear gaze. It was not a look like that of Jem’s father, who tended to focus on the middle distance. Rather Mr. Blake was looking at them, and at the passersby in the street, and at Lambeth Palace rising up in the distance, and at the clouds behind it. He was taking in everything, without judgment.
    â€œAr’ernoon, sir,” Jem said.
    â€œHallo, my boy,” Mr. Blake replied.
    â€œHallo, Mr. Blake!” Maggie called from the street, not to be outdone by Jem. “How’s your missus, then?”
    Her cry revived Miss Pelham, who had sunk into herself in Mr. Blake’s presence. “Get out of my sight, girl!” she cried. “I’ll have you whipped! Jem, don’t you let her back in here. And see her to the end of the street—I don’t trust her for a second. She’ll steal the gate if we don’t watch her!”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” Jem raised his eyebrows apologetically at Mr. Blake, but his neighbor had already opened his gate and stepped into the street. When Jem joined Maggie, they watched as Mr. Blake walked down