"C'mon lazybones, outta bed! Rise and shine!" Lacey grumbled and pulled her blanket over her head. Jimmy always did this. He knew full well she never got out of bed until noon, anyway.

"Go jump off a bridge, Jimmy." she murmured grumpily.

"C'mon, da boys'll be up awready!"

"She's as bad as Firefly!" another voice exclaimed.

Firefly? Lacey's head cleared and she remembered that she was not lying in her cot in the Petersons' circus wagon, but in a bunk bed in the Newsboys' Lodging House in New York City. The voice sounding evermore persistently in her ear did not belong to her youngest brother, but to Pounce. Which means I probably should get up.

"Not a mornin' poison, huh?" Pounce laughed when Clown had finally dragged herself out of bed, nearly falling several feet before she remembered she was on the top bunk. When Clown told her quite pleasantly to drop dead, she laughed again. "So, now dat ya's been heah awhile, whaddaya t'ink a da guys?" Several of the other girls groaned, and the entire group converged on the washroom.

"Pounce, youse got a one-track mind." Truth shook her head.

"I waited a full day an' a half 'fore I ast!" Pounce protested. She splashed some water on her face, then splashed Clown as well.

Lacey sputtered indignantly. "T'ought dat'd get ya up."

"Why I ought to-"

"What?" Pounce grinned back.

The resulting water fight left the wash room a mess and drew Kloppman's good-natured wrath down on them all.

"Evan." Spot, flipping through his papers in search of a good story, turned as his cousin approached.

"Ya hoid." he answered quietly. Race had always told her the reason she could never win at cards was her sad lack of a poker face.

"I wish ya'd told me. I-" She shifted her papers on her arm uncomfortably. "G-d, I'se so sorry!"

He glanced around to see if anyone was listening. "Don't be. It ain't yer fault."

"An' it's yers?" Porter retorted. "I tawked ta Jack. Spot, ya know-"

"Spitfire, drop da subject or ya's gonna get a soakin'."

She backed up in surprise and hurt. "Sorry."

He felt guilty, but turned his back on her anyway. He'd made up his mind to search out that orphanage today and he was not in a good mood.

Lacey didn't hear the conversation, but she saw the expression on her partner's face and grew angry. Truthfully, she'd been angry at Spot all night and this morning made no difference, but to her it was the last straw. She stalked up to him. "I don't know what you just said, but you've got a lot of nerve-"

"An' where da you come off wit da right ta tell me anyt'in?" Another fight with Clown was the last thing Spot wanted, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

Clown acted as if she hadn't even heard him. "-a lot of nerve hurting someone who cares about you. Personally, I don't know why she bothers with you - cousin or no cousin."

"Clown-" Spitfire was reaching the pinnacles of humiliation.

Spot was through with eloquence. "Shaddup! Yer lucky I don't hit goils, cuz-"

Clown gave him a very good excuse to break that rule. Spot came within a millimeter of taking it, before stopping himself. He glanced at his cousin just once before turning around and walking away.

Clown followed his gaze and saw, to her surprise, that Spitfire appeared to be wavering between tears and anger. The younger girl flinched when Lacey touched her arm and ran in another direction.

She wasn't sure whether to be angry or worried. She started to follow, but Pounce stopped her. "Leave 'er."

"But-"

"Leave 'er. She prob'ly don't wanna be found right now, an' ya'd end up fightin' if ya did - if ya din't get lost lookin'. Hey, Truth!" she called. "I'll meet'cha, aw right?"

"See ya, den." Truth nodded, and Pounce steered Clown away from the square.

"Spitfire don't like lots a attention." Pounce said quietly. "Truth says she don't like being fussed ovah, whatevah dat means. She'll go somewheres, an' 'ventually she'll get back ta da lodgin' house an' tawk ta Crutchy. An' she'll be fine latah. C'mon."

"Where are we going?" Clown asked, as Pounce practically dragged her down the street.

"Ta get'cha some normal clothes." Pounce replied. "'Less ya's plannin' ta wear dat ferevah?"

Lacey rolled her eyes at the comment. Pounce was right, though. And anyway, a girl wandering around New York in a clown suit isn't exactly inconspicous. I might as well stand in the middle of the street and yell, "Hey, dad! Here I am!" She shivered involuntarily.

"Somet'in wrong?" her friend asked. Clown shook her head.

Pounce frowned at her. "If yer shoa. So, who's Jimmy? I t'ought ya said ya din't have a guy anywheres."

"Jimmy?" Clown thought of her older brother and laughed. "No, I don't have a guy anywhere. Jimmy's-" She stopped suddenly, wondering how much it was safe to tell. Not that she didn't trust Pounce, but her friend couldn't keep a secret to save her life. Lacey, you are getting paranoid! She rebuked herself. How many Jimmys are there in the world, anyway? If he finds you, it won't be because of that, anyway! "Jimmy's my brother. He's one of those people that believe everyone can live on two hours of sleep." She smiled.

"Let's see." Pounce said, scanning the door numbers. "It's numba thoity, if I rememba right."

"What is?" Clown asked, looking around the dingy tenement building a little uncertainly.

"Ha! Heah." Pounce found the door she had been looking for. "Da woman dat lives heah does da mendin' fer a boys' school. We gets what dey t'inks too worn or old fashioned. It's all boys clothes a coise, though, if ya don't mind."

"Hardly!" Clown replied.

Saint Catherine's, now where- Try as he might, Spot couldn't concentrate on his search. His mind kept wandering back to Clown and the morning's fight. He silently cursed her. He never started the fights! He always resolved to be polite. He'd even prepare himself to apologize, for goodness' sake! Did she have any idea how rare that was? Not dat I'se evah got far enough fer her ta know dat's what I'se doin' - and then she'd throw him something like that and make him lose complete control. Only a very few could push him to that point. Speaking of which . . . Don't'cha t'ink ya owe Spitfire one, too?

She shoulda known betta, at least! he answered his conscience uncomfortably.

Known betta den what? Den ta try ta help?

She can't help. Ain't nobody can help. Dead is dead. An' it's my fault.

Lost in those thoughts as he was, Spot was taken by surprise when he looked up and saw the battered sign identifying Saint Catherine's Home for Children right in front of him.

Mother Anne looked up from her letter and put her pen down with a sigh. She'd been writing petitions all morning, and she was beginning to loathe the sight of the her own handwriting. She glanced out the window at the warm autumn street, and raised her eyebrows. That newsboy on the corner had been standing there the last time she looked up over an hour ago, and his stack of newspapers had not decreased by much since then. As she watched, the boy crossed the street to the door of the orphanage, paused, then retreated back across the road. Seemingly disgusted with himself, he shrugged his shoulders, gathered up his courage and marched back to the door. A few seconds later the doorbell rang.

When she opened the door the boy - sixteen or seventeen - Anne guessed - quickly pulled off his hat, but there was something about him that belied the gesture. Deference did not sit well with this boy - nervous as he was trying not to appear. "Aftanoon, Sista. I - me name's Evan." His eyes flickered as he said it. "I jist-"

"Come and tell me inside!" Anne protested. She motioned him toward her office just to the right of the door, eyes taking in the bundle of newspapers under his left arm, his immaculate - if worn - attire, the silver key that hung over his neck and particularly the gold-topped cane that stuck through his belt like a sword.

'Evan' followed her, warily, looking suspiciously at the foreign and possibly hostile surroundings. A hand jumped defensively to the cane at his side, like a knight's to his sword, though he dropped it as soon as he noticed what he was doing. Interesting.

Mother Anne made a show of opening the drapes further to relieve the closed in feeling of the study, and tidying up what little there was to tidy while the boy made him self more at ease. "So," she folded her letter. "Tell me what brings the famed Spot Conlon to our humble halls."

She sensed him freeze even before she looked up. His second reaction was calmer than the instinctive response to danger, but while he was clearly attempting to keep most of the threat out of his posture he was more than ready to fight any enemy that might appear. "Where'd ya come up wit dat name?"

Anne had dealt with wilder strays than this in seventy years, though few of the sisters would guess now. She smiled, facing him directly with her hands in plain view - a posture that he reacted to without even knowing it. "After all the stories? The undefeated leader of the Brooklyn newsies? The hero of the summer's strike? The most respected and famous newsie in all of New York?" Spot relaxed a little and started to grin, knowing full well that he was being flattered, that it was working - to a point - and not minding in the least. "This is an orphanage after all. You're quite the hero with the boys."

"Dat so?" He tried to appear indifferent, but he was clearly pleased. Then his expression clouded over abruptly. She wondered what was troubling him.

Hero, huh? Spot thought bitterly. Shoa. Look where all that adulation had gotten Gardener. The boy had trusted him without question when Spot told him he'd be fine on his own. An' it was a lie. An' he's dead. Spot Conlon! Lynn's only connection with the name would be the boy who took her brother away from her. A fleeting, cowardly impulse nearly sent him bolting out the door again, but he mastered it. "Sista-"

"Mother," the nun corrected. "Mother Anne."

"Mudda Anne," it felt strange to say, "I'se lookin' fer a goil named Lynn Hosmer. She's got a brudda, Karl, wit me boys." One-fifth of the Brooklyn newsies were female as Spot was by no means unaware, but he chose to overlook that fact for the moment. The nun's eyes lit.

"Lynn? Of course." She picked up a small bell Spot had not noticed sitting on her desk and rang it. A few minutes later a younger nun with a few shockingly red hairs escaping from under her wimple entered through the door behind him. "Sister Sarah, could you bring Lynn, please, I believe she's at lessons." The younger nun nodded and left after a wide-eyed look at Spot. "Why are you looking for her?"

Spot quickly returned his attention to Mother Anne. "Her brudda. He's-" His hand convulsed once on air, remembering the wilted bouquet. "He died two days ago."

Suprised, Anne opened her mouth to reply, but she never got the chance.

"Mother Anne, I'm sorry I picked the roses. I know you said not to, but Catherine was sick and she likes the smell so much I had to bring her some . . ." The girl trailed off, looking at Spot curiously. Her blond hair had most likely been brushed neat earlier that morning, but now it was filled with leaves, and stray strands fell into her blue eyes.

Spot was equally surprised. Gardener had never described his sister, but somehow Spot had been expecting an older girl. This voluble, wide-eyed, untidy five-year-old caught him completely off guard - and somehow made him more at ease. "Heya, Lynn. I'se a friend a yer bruddas."

She looked him up and down. "You're Spot!" Mother Anne had not been the only one to hear the stories. "Never fear, Brooklyn is here!" she quoted proudly. "Karl told me about you."

"Dat's right." Spot found himself smiling. "Yer a smart kid. Since yer Gard'ner's sista, though, youse can call me Evan." He squatted down and added confidingly. "Dat's me real name, but don't go tellin' nobody, awright?" She nodded, glowing at the compliment both to herself and to her brother.

"Cross my heart. I won't tell anyone."

"So what's dis about da roses?"

"Well, Catherine . . ."

Neither noticed when Mother Anne left the study, smiling to herself.

Spitfire appeared in Central Park a little after noon, trying unsuccessfully not to appear self-conscious. Clown didn't know what to say, and since Porter didn't appear to want comments, she said nothing.

"Ya plannin' on changin' yer name, too?" Spitfire asked on the way back. It was the first comment on her new outfit. Clown was now dressed in a shirt, vest and pants very like the other newsies'. They were several sizes large for her, but at least they were warm. She still wore her red bowler, however. It sat at an angle on her brown hair.

"No, that's why I kept the hat." Lacey replied, still a little uncomfortable. "I'm sorry-" she began.

"I'se a idiot." Porter replied, equally uncomfortably. "Don't be."

The complaints came primarily from Blink and Pie, both of whom grinned despite their words. It took a lot to upset Pie Eater, and while Blink could get over-excited sometimes, this wasn't the sort of thing to bother him.

Pie Eater looked up, saw him and grinned. "Heah ta help us?"

Spot smirked. "Aw, I dunno. Ya look like ya's doin' fine on yer own."

His gaze wandered around the room, and he noticed a scrap of white cloth on the floor sticking out from under one of the bunks. A paper of some kind lay next to it. When he picked up the cloth, he realized it was a handkerchief. It held the initials 'L.P.' He probably would have left it on the night stand if the paper hadn't caught his eye. It was a flyer, or playbill, announcing in bold curly letters the Flying Petersons, acrobats and fearless trapeze artists. They were Samuel Peterson Sr., Elizabeth Peterson, Samuel Peterson Jr., Joseph, Peter, James and Lacey. He knew the names and history of most of Duane Street's girls. Only one could possibly have a background in the circus, and only one could own that handkerchief. Lacey. He tried to fit the name to Clown. It implied a delicate nature that was difficult to reconcile with the red welt on his cheek. D-n, dat goil hits hard!

Kid Blink glanced his way. "What'cha doin', Spot?"

"Nothin'." Without really thinking about what he was doing, he replaced the flyer and slipped the handkerchief in his pocket. It bore further thought. "Hey, any a youse know wheah I can get some wood an' a piece a string?"

They exchanged glances. "Dere's some broken crates back a da store on da corner." Specs replied. "Kloppman's probably got some string."

Spot nodded, and turned to go. "Den I'll leave ya ta yer woik." he smirked.

They rolled their eyes.

By the time Spot returned with the wood and the string, the lodging house was full of newsies. Truth was animatedly involved in telling some story at one end of the lodging house. Blink was attempting to cross the bunk room on his hands as part of a bet Spot probably didn't want to know about. Pen sat on Jack's bunk gnawing on the end of a pen and staring into space. Porter and Crutchy were talking by the window, apparently oblivious of anyone else.

"Heya, Spot." Race looked up. "Craps? Dere's a game down behind McClosky's bar." (AUTHOR'S NOTE: 'But Mrs. McClosky ain't a good scout!' I just couldn't resist the Guys and Dolls reference.)

"Naw, hey! - how'd da race go yestidy?"

Race thought. "Oh, yeah! I toldja to go wit Flame-"

"So who won?" Spot asked.

Racetrack grinned ruefully. "Blue Fire. Madison came in second, though. I took da odds on foist an' second fer ya, so dat gives ya-" He dug in his pocket. "-six dollars - t'ree a which I seem ta rememba ya owe me?"

Spot took half his winnings without arguing.

"Ouch, that does look like it hurts." Spot winced, and turned to come face to face - or rather neck to face - with Clown. She touched his red cheek, with mock sympathy. Spot concentrated on his already mounting anger; he didn't want to think about his own reaction to her touch. "Not too bad?" she asked.

"Jack," Spot called over her head, teeth clenched. "Keep dis goil away from me."

"Oh, I won't hurt you." Clown said with an innocence Truth couldn't match.

Snickers escaped several newsies. Pie Eater - the only one Spot identified - quickly became engrossed in discussing the game with Race and Skittery at the Brooklyn newsie's glare. Spot continued to ignore Clown. "I don't wanna lose me tempa tanight."

"You found it?" Clown gasped. This time the snickers were louder.

He gave up on trying to ignore her. "More den you can do." He took in her change of wardrobe, and made a push to get ahead in the argument. "Nice clothes. Much betta. Practical."

She didn't seem to get where he was going yet. "Thank you." She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Ya can weah jist da shoit ta da next dance."

"Ya know, if ya gave da goil a honest compliment, ya could avoid dat." Jack nodded at Spot's glowing cheek which now matched the other one. He leaned against the edge of Spot's bunk.

"Shaddup, Jack." Spot replied, distractedly. Most of his attention was on the piece of wood he was carving. A shaving fell to the floor. He was also trying very hard not to think about the newest addition to the Duane Street crowd, and his best friend was not helping. He gave the block, slowly forming into a Y-shape, an angry stroke with his knife that it had done nothing to deserve.

Clown. His cheeks were already too red for either anger or embarrassment to show which was just as well because he wasn't certain which he was feeling at the moment. She drew him like no one else did. He liked her. He hated her. She made him more angry, more humiliated, and more frustrated than anyone he'd ever meet. He couldn't stand her - but he found himself looking for her at every unguarded moment in places she couldn't possibly show up. She regularly insulted him in a way no one else had dared to since he was thirteen; it angered him, but in a perverse way he admired her for it. An' admit it, she ain't shown a bit a interest.

Jack had already made hints about the lure of the unattainable. Spot, with the greatest of courtesy, had told him to can it. The carving done, he began drilling through one arm of the Y with his knife. Lacey. He remembered his earlier thought. No, delicate, dat goil ain't! That was another thing to turn his face red. He swore silently. Spot it's jist a goil, fer goodness' sake! But it was hard to think of Clown as 'just' anything. He looked up from one completed hole and glanced across the room at the girl in question while starting on the next.

A goil like dat's trouble, anyways. She's stubborn, bad-tempered- And he could sense the possibility of becoming far more attached to her than he wanted to be to anyone. Dat settles it, den. He tied the ends of the string through the holes in the wood, and tested the slingshot, then made one final adjustment.

At that moment, his cousin walked by the end of the bed on her way up to the roof. "Hey, Spitfire." Porter stopped questioningly. Spot tested the slingshot once more and handed it down without looking at her. "I believe ya's been needin' one?"

"T'anks! Um-" Out of the corner of his eye he saw her debating whether to say something, but she closed her mouth and dropped it, accepting the apology for what it was. Spot was grateful. Now if only Clown were so easy to deal with . . .