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look after myself, you know.’
    ‘So you didn’t need my help then?’ I asked sarcastically. ‘I wish you’d told me for I’d’ve spared myself a lot of trouble. I s’pose you’d’ve beaten them all single-handed, would you?’
    ‘Well, I have to admit that it wasn’t looking promising until you showed up.’ He shook the water off his face and dusted down his ruined clothes. ‘Shall we go in?’
    He didn’t seem to realise just how close we had come to serious injury. ‘You may have dealt out one beating this morning,’ I told him grumpily, ‘but we both face another when they see what a state you’re in.’
    ‘Beatings are nothing new. Thank you for coming to help me, Miss Cat.’ He gave me a mocking bow.
    I could not help but smile at his flamboyant flourish. He had bowed as if I were a duchess.
    ‘It’s just Cat, Pedro. You saved me from the balloon; I rescued you from the Boil. So, we’re quits then?’
    ‘Yes, we’re quits.’
    It was only as we reached the safety of the theatre that it really struck me that we hadn’t heard the last of this morning’s escapade. I had made myself a very formidable enemy in Billy ‘Boil’ Shepherd . . . and his enemies had the unfortunate habit of meeting sudden ends down dark alleyways. Not a pleasant thought.

SCENE 3 . . . A TRIUMPH
    As I had predicted, we were both soundly beaten for arriving back at the theatre covered in mud and, in Pedro’s case, blood. No one wanted to hear our explanations. As far as Signor Angelini was concerned, the only thing that mattered was that Pedro had missed an hour of rehearsal time and returned having spoilt both his clothes and appearance. As for me, Mrs Reid did not look kindly upon my mud-spattered skirts nor on the part she assumed I had played in ruining her Mogul Prince.
    ‘It’s all very well for you to cry, missee,’ she scolded as I nursed my hands, raw from the blows she had just inflicted, ‘but you should have thought first before you led the boy off into the streets. If you want to stay at Drury Lane, you have to start acting like a lady, not like a street beggar’s brat.’
    ‘I didn’t lead him anywhere!’ I protested, outraged by the unfairness of her accusations.‘I was saving him from being mobbed by the market gangs!’
    ‘Well, you didn’t do a very good job, did you?’ she replied, stabbing a pin into Pedro’s costume as he stood patiently waiting for her to finish. He had been thrashed by Signor Angelini but I will not tell you where. Suffice to say that the beating will not interfere with his violin playing nor be visible to the public. He winced as she tugged on a red silk sash but then, seeing that I was watching, he gave me a wink when her back was turned.
    Sarah Bowers entered carrying an enormous confection on a tray. I looked again: it wasn’t a dessert as I had at first thought but a lavishly decorated turban of pale pink.
    ‘’Ere you go,’ said Sarah, ramming the hat on Pedro’s head so that it covered the cut on his right temple. ‘I’ve gone to town with the jools . . . they should take eyes off that there black ’un of yours.’
    Indeed the twinkling gemstones were dazzling even in the pale light of the Sparrow’s Nest; it was not hard to imagine them in their full splendour under the chandeliers. But Sarah’s talk of jewelsreminded me of another subject I had almost forgotten in today’s adventures.
    ‘Are those real?’ I asked, stretching up to tap on the big ruby set in the centre of the turban. A white ostrich feather bobbed over Pedro’s head like a swan’s neck dipping into a silken stream.
    ‘I certainly hope so,’ said Pedro, squinting at himself in the mirror, ‘because then I’ll be on the first boat to France and will live off my riches for the rest of my days.’
    Mellowing a little as she admired the effect of the costume over which she had slaved so hard, Mrs Reid laughed. ‘You won’t get far with those, my lad; they are all paste.