Folly by Marthe Jocelyn

the Allyn house, where no one went after the day's milk were
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    fetched each morning. It were chilly in there, being made of hunking great stones; another reason not to dally about without covering.
    We thought, once, of going to his own bed, in the little place off the barracks stable where he had a cot, but it were raining that night, too far to walk in the wet, with me having to come back and look presentable at the end of it. So we stuck with the nearby and I were rosy-faced but dry when next seen by Mrs. Wiggins.
    What possessed me? I'd been a girl with common sense up till then. All the days between our minutes together, sense never won. Not over ... over the lust of it. Whatever were I thinking?
    Nothing clever, it's clear now. Clear as the first cry on a winter morning. "Pies, ladies! Fresh pies!" Only it were "Lies, ladies! All lies!"
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    JAMES 1888 Guildford Street
    An old pieman stood himself on the very same cobble every day, his basket so heavy to start with that it sat by his feet--or on his feet when the mud was bad. When the breeze was right, the smell of meat floated up to James in the tree, making his stomach grumble even if he'd just had his dinner. This old man's cap looked like one of his own pies, with his hair sticking out in tufts from under it. The customers called him Pie Peter, and he'd sing two hundred times in an afternoon: "Savory pies! Fresh and tasty, buy them hasty! Pies! Savory pies! Fresh and tasty, buy them hasty! Pies!"
    Late on a drizzly day, James spied a gang of boys creeping up on Pie Peter. Their clothes were tattered, enormous, maybe parts of men's suits, torn off to make the lengths right or tied on with string. Some of their feet
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    were bare, some were wrapped in newspapers or rags; some wore shoes of a sort, but none with laces and none with hose. James was tempted to peel off his own stockings and toss them down, just to see if the urchins would know what to use them for.
    The two in front were playacting: the littlest boy began crying at a nod from his partner. He belched out such a boohooing that he drowned out "Savory pies!"
    The old man leaned over to him, maybe tender or maybe just to shut his noise, but those other scamps scooted in from behind and snatched pies right out of the basket! Pie Peter hollered and swung his cap as if it were a stick that could strike the villains down.
    James laughed so hard he nearly slipped off the branch. He climbed down, still hearing the small boy's shout, "We was hungry 'n' you gots pies!"
    James lay in his bed that night, surrounded by the familiar night sounds: Walter wheezing, Frederick snoring in squeaky huffs, Adam Bernard whimpering as always, as if he were dreaming about greedy rats crawling over his mattress, Michael Angelo grinding his teeth like he'd got the hardest of boiled sweets between his molars.
    James propped himself up on an elbow, looking around in the dark until it didn't seem quite so black.
    "Hey!" he whispered at Frederick's cot. "You awake?"
    "Shht!" shushed someone, but it was a boy hiss, not a matron hiss.
    Frederick rolled over. "What?" he grumbled.
    "I've got an idea," said James.
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"Save it for morning."
    "It's about food," said James. "Aren't you hungry?"
    James could feel Frederick sitting up. He glanced toward the west end of the dormitory, thirty cots away, where the matron had a tiny room. There was no light.
    "She's on rounds," whispered James. "Old Aldercott."
    "Full-of-Snot," mumbled Frederick.
    "Come on." James slid off the bed. His nerve was up; he had to stop himself from running across the floor. Frederick would surely follow. He tiptoed away from Matron's closet to the east stairwell. A scuffling behind him, a grunt and curse. Not just Frederick but Walter, too, Frederick trying to stop him. James snapped his fingers, then swiped one finger across his throat. At the top of the stairs, James pressed them both against the wall.
    "There's no messing things up," he whispered. "Quit yapping