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be closed the next day. And although he’d chanced to see Juliana arrive at the grocery early one morning, where she lived was a mystery. Yet somehow he had to find her, and soon — a problem he gnawed on unceasingly while he returned to the shoe shop, put the flowers in water, ate supper, and finally climbed into bed.

A mockingbird burst into song from a treetop. Nicholas shook off a dream and sat up. Startled to find the sun long risen, he threw on his clothes, dashed toward the stairway, prepared to face Mr. Quince below — and recalled that it was a holiday.
    Relieved, he wandered drowsily downstairs. The shop was silent and would stay that way, though the door was unlocked for anyone with shoes or boots to be picked up. Instantly Nicholas spun around and stared at Juliana’s shoe.
    Mr. Quince had finished repairing it. And he’d told Juliana when she’d brought it in that he’d have it done by the holiday. No doubt she’d stop in to get it that morning. The apprentice beamed to realize that the problem of hunting her down was solved.
    Reverently, he picked up the shoe, running a finger along the brass buckle and over the glossy black leather. Then it crossed his mind that Juliana might, by chance, have forgotten about it. Or perhaps she wouldn’t have time to retrieve it until the day after the ball.
    His spirits wilted. He put the shoe down, knowing he couldn’t be certain that she’d come to the shop in time. Working his brain for a way to find her, he found himself absently eyeing a hammer — and suddenly remembered Saint Crispin.
    Nicholas charged upstairs, seized the verbena, and scurried back down, sure that Saint Crispin, his guide and protector, would show him the way to Juliana.
    “Good day to you, Nicholas,” said Mr. Quince with a smile, entering the shop from the kitchen. “Fine weather for the militia to march, is it not?”
    Nicholas halted and looked out the window. “Yes, sir,” he answered. Then he ran for the doorway.
    “You too like to watch the review, do you lad?”
    Nicholas froze with his hand on the latch. “Yes, sir.” He shuffled his feet impatiently.
    “Well then, no doubt I’ll see you there.”
    “No doubt,” he replied, and rushed through the door.
    He sped down the walk, then looked up at the vane. It had shifted direction during the night, and Nicholas found that it now faced south. Orienting himself accordingly, the apprentice set off down the street, his eyes alert for Juliana.
    He wondered whether she’d turn a corner and suddenly appear in his path. Or perhaps he’d catch just the merest glimpse of her face in a second-story window. Nicholas glanced about, wary as a hunter, then abruptly stopped.
    He lowered his eyes, viewing a patch of verbena growing beneath a rosebush, along the wall of a church. Deciding the four stalks he’d brought along hardly made a proper bouquet, he squatted down and pulled out his jackknife.
    “
You,
boy! Rascal! Away from those flowers!”
    It was a woman’s voice, half a block behind him. Fearing to turn around and be seen, Nicholas quickly shot to his feet, ripping the back of his shirt on a rose thorn, and burst into flight down the street.
    Leaving a trail of verbena petals, he sprinted until his sides ached, then stopped. He looked behind him and saw he was safe. Catching his breath, he tidied his hair and assessed the lengthy rip in his shirt. He hadn’t had time to pick more flowers. His scanty bouquet would have to do.
    The apprentice pushed on, following the street until it ended at a park running along the water. Unable to travel any farther in the direction Saint Crispin had pointed him, Nicholas struck out down a path to his left, aware of diverging from his course but reasoning that to explore the park was no doubt what the saint had meant him to do.
    The path was crowded with people strolling and taking in the view of the sea. Yet after walking from one end to the other without catching sight of Juliana, Nicholas