No Regrets by Michèle Ann Young Page B

ravenous at mealtimes as his body outgrew his clothes in a week. And he had never gone without. "Now about this piano—"
       "You said I'd 'ave me own room?" Fred interrupted, the gleam in his eye militant.
       "You will, when the work on the house is complete."
       Fred curled a sullen lip. "I 'ad me own room at Ma Jessop's. You said it'd be better here." He sent a disparaging glance at the cots in the corner. "All I got is a bunch of snivelin' young'uns crying for their mamas." His glance swiveled to Jake.
       Jake sniffed.
       Forcing a patience into his voice he didn't feel, Lucas replied, "What you had at Jessop's was a rat-infested corner in a leaky attic."
       "Ma" Jessup, a man who wore a silk dressing gown most of the time and hence the sobriquet, ran the street gang to which the boy had belonged. Under Jessup's tender care, Fred had graduated from pickpocket to ken cracker after perfecting the technique for entering wealthy homes and making off with the silver.
       "It was me own room. Private. Better than here."
       As private as a backyard privy. "I'll find you something while we wait for the bedrooms to be finished. Give me a couple of days."
       The shabby coat shifted as Fred shrugged.
       Lucas made a mental note to ask Mr. Davis to keep an eye on the lad. He feared Fred might be too old to give up the lure of easy money. Anger choked him at the thought of the waste of a God-given talent—his own as well as Fred's. He stamped hard on his regrets. These boys were the important ones now.
       "Back to the piano," he said. "The most important part is not the outside, but the guts." He nodded at Fred. "Open the lid."
       His swagger in full evidence, Fred sauntered to the instrument and propped up the curved top. The boys and Lucas peered into the exposed workings and inhaled the scent of new pine.
       "Watch," Lucas said.
       The younger boys jostled around him. "Play a scale, please, Fred. Slowly, if you don't mind."
       The hammers struck the strings and they vibrated with sound.
       "This instrument could be covered in firewood or mahogany," Lucas said. "Dented or scratched, it would make no difference to the sounds it makes."
       The boys nodded wisely. Fred snorted.
       Bending beneath the lid, Lucas reached inside and slipped his calling card between a hammer and its string. "Give me a high C, Fred."
       The hammer thumped dismally against the paper. "This is the part you need to care about. The case enhances, makes better, the sound, but it's just a container. This is the heart of the music."
       Fred stuck his head in the gap. A lank lock of black hair fell forward. "It's kind of like people," he muttered. "It don't matter what they look like; it's what's inside them wot counts."
       This lad reeked of sadness, but every time Lucas tried to get to the bottom of what troubled him, the boy retreated into his devil-may-care shell. It felt so damn familiar it hurt.
       "Yes, Fred. Exactly like people."
       Lucas stepped back and took in their eager faces. "Now, here's the thing. I want you all to learn to play the piano. We've got the old piano for everyone to use for lessons and whenever they feel like it. And we have this one. If you practice your scales for an hour every day, you can have another fifteen minutes on the Broadwood to try your hand at some tunes."
       "'Ooray!" shouted Jake. "Me first."
       Jostling and shoving, they pushed each other off the bench with bony elbows, observed by a disdainful Fred.
       "Stop," Lucas shouted above the din. "To make it fair for all, Fred will organize the schedule and make sure you abide by it." He glanced at the older boy, who seemed to stand a little taller. "Is that all right with you, Fred?"
       "I suppose . . . milud."
       "Good. You will start tomorrow. Behave yourselves, now. I have to talk to Mr. Davis."
       He headed for the door and then stopped and swung around. Four