Margaret stood up just as Mrs Tarrow opened the door to let Poppy Smith in. The girl had Molly’s same straight, pale hair, but she had dark eyes, and in every other way her face and form must have taken after her father. She had none of her mother’s strong features. She was frail and slight with a narrow chin and large, vulnerable eyes. Her blonde hair was hanging loose to her shoulders, stringy from lack of care, and her dress was short and ill-fitting. She held in her hands a crumpled bundle of flowers. It had clearly been picked a long time ago and clutched at intervals during the adventures of the day.
Margaret saw all this, but then her gaze was drawn to something far more concerning – a bright gash in the child’s forehead from which came a small stream of blood.
“Poppy,” she said, coming over to the girl and bending down. “What happened to your head?”
Poppy shrugged and looked past Margaret to where her mother lay in the bed.
“Just the stones,” she said. She moved around Margaret without greeting her, used to having her in the house and not educated enough in manners to understand the propriety of introductions. She came to her mother’s side and pushed the mashed blooms into her mother’s hands. Molly’s fingers closed around them, but her eyes stayed shut.
“What stones?” Margaret asked.
“Sometimes the children throw stones,” Mrs Tarrow said. She had been sitting in a chair with her eyes closed, rocking by the fire. Now she stopped and got up, moving about to warm some soup.
“At her?” Margaret cried. “That’s barbaric.”
Mrs Tarrow shrugged. “The child is an outcast. The other children don’t mean anything by it – they don’t know any better.”
“She could have been seriously wounded.” Margaret came to Poppy’s side and leaned down. “Poppy, I must fix your head. It looks like it hurts.”
Poppy pushed her hands away. She had dirt on her arms and face, perhaps from a fall, perhaps from crawling around in search of the perfect flowers for her dying mother. Either way, it broke Margaret’s heart. “No hurting,” Poppy said simply.
Molly’s eyes opened as though she was looking up at them, but Margaret could see that she was looking through Poppy to some distant place.
“Poppy?” she called.
Margaret’s heart clenched. “Molly, she’s right here.” She reached forward and drew the child’s small hand into Molly’s weak one. “She came back with flowers for you.”
“That’s nice,” Molly said, her eyes still unfocused. “That’s nice, Poppy. You’re Mana’s girl. Remember…” her voice trailed off, her mouth went slack, her eyes still open, unfocused. Margaret knew what had happened even before she bent down to feel for her pulse and breath. She was gone.
Poppy, however, seemed not to understand. She nudged her mother’s shoulder, face, mouth with gentle, probing fingers. “Mama?”
Margaret felt a knot in her throat. She didn’t want to frighten the child by crying, so she fought back the tears and knelt, pulling Poppy to her side. “Sweetheart,” she said in a shaking voice. “I think your mama has gone away to a better place. She was very sick, but now she is hurting no more.”
Poppy turned and fixed Margaret with a gaze too knowing for a four-year-old. “Dead?” she asked weakly.
Margaret sucked in her breath. “Yes, sweetie.”
Poppy’s face registered this in intervals. First shock, then confusion, then desperate grief. She turned and threw herself on her mother’s body on the bed, shaking her and sobbing out her name again and again. It took both Margaret and Mrs Tarrow some time to pull her away. Mrs Tarrow promised to make the arrangements for the burial and then stopped by the door, her hand on the knob.
“Where do you want me to take the child?” she asked.
Margaret swallowed hard. “There is no need,” she said. “The girl will come with me.”
Chapter 2
Poppy rode in front of Margaret on the horse for the short distance to the Somerville estate. When they arrived, a change had come over her. She was no longer passionately crying or screaming for her mother. She had stopped saying or doing anything at all. She looked pale and small. Margaret lifted her off the horse and was frightened at how light and frail she was. She set her on the ground and reached to take her hand. It was limp in hers.
“Poppy,” Margaret said gently. “We’re going into my house now. Are you all right?”
Poppy looked at her for a long moment, wordless, and then