A group of children scamper around them, singing, ‘Hark, hark, the dogs do bark, the beggars are coming to town!’

The boy next to him grins. ‘Fair Maiden, look, the Roaring Boys have gathered to greet you. Wherever you were before, I bet the day’s lifts that you’ve never seen a sight like this.’

John’s cheeks warm at being called Fair Maiden, but before he can speak, he sees a ragged barrier of people forming across the street. None of them are boys, though, and the roaring is coming from everyone else trying to get out of their way. They are dressed in ill-matched odds and ends, their faces scarred and pitted; there are missing ears, squashed-in noses, and two of them only have one eye. Their stench is something real and solid: dirty feet, sour alcohol, emptied guts, weeping sores. To John, they are a line of scarecrows, straggling between life and death, leaking filth from the pores of their skin. And his companion marches merrily towards them, taking John with him.

John puts a hand to his mouth, wanting to run, but the boy’s touch on his arm is all that keeps him steady. If he lets go, he will surely fall. And the smell will ooze over him and claim him and he’ll be lost forever.

When they get close the men part like a row of barley, and let the two of them through. The smell is a wall of green meat, crawling with maggots. The red-haired boy stops right in the midst of it, jesting and talking, leaning in to the closest man and whispering in his ear, seemingly oblivious to the waxy gunk stuck to the wiry sproutings of hair on his head. The man wheezes and whistles, a death rattle that makes John shiver, but the man is grinning, and the redheaded boy throws his head back in easy, open-mouthed laughter.

John’s own mouth is clamped shut; he swallows and swallows, desperate not to vomit and appear so weak in front of someone who is so … not-weak.

Eventually the row of men move on, relinking their arms where they parted for the boys and stomp forward. They don’t take all their stink with them, but at least it lessens.

The redheaded boy watches their unruly progress with a half-smile.

John fingers the scented pouch under his clothes, scared that if he brings it out into this miasma, it’ll be forever destroyed. He gazes up at the taller boy, his eyes watering. Can he ask for another kiss? Will that beat the stench here like it had in the alleyway? Can he say help me, like the boy said to him?

And the boy will put his hands on John’s waist again… well, only one hand this time, as he’s holding Jetta’s clothes… he will put one hand on John’s waist, and…

He realises the boy is staring at him. ‘What now? Does everyone smell like rose petals in your country?’ He wipes a thumb across John’s cheeks and his smile widens. ‘Ah, forgive me, I’ve seen fellows bigger than Starving Robert faint dead away when the Roaring Boys pass by.’ He watches the men move further down the street. ‘Have you ever felt like that? Standing up and screaming and making all those people with their neat little lives take notice?’

‘No,’ John’s voice is a croak.

‘Never?’

‘Never.’

‘Why not? One as pretty as you would brighten the world of all who saw you.’

John can only shake his head and looked at the ground. He will correct this strange boy who thinks he’s a beautiful girl. Soon.