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For a moment Mary tried to believe the man—despite all she knew about his profound hypocrisy. Would the Almighty save her from the thief's noose? Would the Mighty Master force Mrs. Jones to give Mary her money back and care for her again, in the old way? Would the Maker let Mary tell her mistress the truth and the sky not fall in?

'Be like the reed,' said the curate, 'that bends and is not broken, in the same wind that uproots the tall cedar.'

Mary thought of a high wind, of its teeth stripping leaves from branches that crashed down all around her. Now her heart was banging round her ribs like a rat in a trap. She felt nausea rise inside her and begin to spiral. Cadwaladyr's words had retreated to a great distance.

'Mary?' A tiny whisper from Mrs. Jones.

She would have liked to answer, but she was too far away. Her head whirled. She swayed on her knees. Her throat moved; she bit her lips to seal them shut.

A soft arm around her, another on her face, the fingers cool as water. Mary was violently sick into her mistress's hand.

Mary woke in the middle of a sweat-soaked night. A hand was pressing a cool cloth to her chest; she clutched it in her own. A small squeeze of the fingers.

'I won't be sick much longer,' Mary croaked after a while. 'I swear it.'

'Hush now, cariad.'

'Don't turn me out.' Hot water ran from Mary's eyes, into her ears, down her neck.

'Hush, child. Sure, you're one of the family, I've told you.'

'I'll be a good girl if you'll only let me stay,' she sobbed.

'I know you will.' The woman's voice was light as down.

'Let me stay. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' Mary couldn't remember what for.

'I know, I know.'

Then it came to her, the awful thing. 'I'll never do it again, Mother. It was only for the ribbon.'

'Shh.' The cool hand put the cloth to her forehead. 'There's no ribbon.'

Mary panicked, tried to sit up. 'Where's it gone?'

Her mother was pressing her down on the pillow, and kissing her on the forehead. So heavy, so soft. 'It's put away safe.'

She let herself subside. 'Doll had one first.'

'Doll?' The voice sounded bewildered. 'Who's Doll?'

Mary turned her hot face into the pillow. 'Doll's in the alley.'

She was plummeting back into the darkness.

When she woke again there was a man leaning over her with a knife. She knew his devilish eyebrows. She screamed so hard she made him jump.

'I'll hold her, Joseph, and let you try again.' That soft voice, that wasn't her mother, Mary realised. It was Mrs. Jones, of course.

She spat in the man's face. 'I know you!' she shrieked. 'With your big knife and your robes. That'll be ten guineas to you, sir!'

'Shush, now, Mary,' said Mrs. Jones. 'Cadwaladyr's kindly come to help with the bloodletting.'

Mary began to buck and kick against the sheets that bound her.

'You'll feel the better for it, my dear,' her mistress promised. 'It's the only thing to break a fever.'

'There was blood on the sheet already,' she roared at the man. 'It was only wine!'

Cadwaladyr had retreated to the corner of the room, his arms folded, the great knife sticking up. Mrs. Jones beckoned to him. 'Come back, do, Joseph. It's the fever talking.'

Mary tried to spit again but her mouth had turned to ashes.

Then the woman held Mary down while the man cut a line down the side of her neck. Mary said nothing, she only listened to the blood as it fell into the tin pail. Dimly she was aware that the woman was crying. 'We would save your life, Mary. We wouldn't do it except to save your life.'

Mrs. Jones came downstairs with blood all over her apron. Her husband stood in the parlour and watched her walk about. He wanted to open his arms to her, but they were locked by his sides. 'How is the girl?' he asked softly.

A violent shrug.

'Is the fever easing?'

His wife sat down at the table and rested her jaw on her fists. 'It comes and goes.'

He nodded, like a puppet. If the girl died, he knew his wife would never forgive him.

Then she looked up at him and said, 'I know