“Was I whistling?”Johnny Longrieve puckered his lips and blew out a good imitation of the song that had been stuck in Neal’s head for two days.He tousled the boy’s hair. “Very good.”“What’s it called?”“‘Springtime Brings on the Shearing.’ I learned it from a shepherd when I was a bit younger than you.”“Will you learn it to me?” The young face littered with a few days’ beard growth shone with expectation.Neal shifted his medical kit to his other hand, resisting the urge to correct the boy’s grammar. “Why aren’t you in school, Johnny?”The boy shrugged. “My da didn’t see the need, but I’m too old now anyway. I got my numbers—adding and subtracting—and I can write my name. But I’m to take over driving the hackney cab when Da is too old. I’d be with him today, taking Miss Bainbridge out to Wakesdown, ’cept I had messages to carry this morning. I only go with him whenever no one needs me to deliver nothing.”Heat prickled the back of Neal’s neck at the image that formed in his mind at the mention of the seamstress’s name.
