Tom was sobbing now, wiping his be-slobbered nose with a ragged and filthy sleeve. 'No,' he said. 'No I won't.'
'It will be the birch first,' Lorna kept smiling. 'Perhaps twenty- five strokes, maybe more, and then what will they do with you? A boy who lives by breaking into houses and stealing? It will be transportation; seven years at least and probably more. Think of that, Tom; think of maybe ten years in Van Diemen's Land, on your own with all the grown men, all the murderers and thieves, the highwaymen and worse.' She pushed Tom's hands away from his face and stared into his terrified eyes, hating herself. 'Much worse.'
'No,' Tom shook his head and drummed his feet on the bed. 'No-o-o-o.'
Lorna let him sob for a long minute. 'Unless…' she said and stopped.
She waited for another mi
