her way to the side of town where cottages were built one against the other. In the upstairs room she knew so well, there was a dim light burning.
She tied her horse up outside and slipped into the hall. It smelt of fish, and she saw the tools of the trade hanging on pegs against the wall. She climbed the stairs to the heavy door and knocked gently. At first, there was no answer, and then the sound of a bolt sliding away, and she was greeted by the weathered face of an old woman from the village, a herbalist who was an excellent alternative for those who couldn’t afford a doctor.
“Mrs Tarrow,” Margaret said quietly. “How is she doing?”
The old woman’s face was lined with worry. “Not well at all, my lady. It is good that you came.”
Margaret came inside the room, blinking at the sudden dimness. The light she had seen in the street must have been coming from the fire that burned in the grate, for there was no candle in sight. The whole home fit into a single room. She had been in this room often as a child, for it was where Molly’s father had lived before his accident at sea.
The fishing hooks downstairs and the smell were the only tangible memories of the man who had tirelessly raised Molly when she was still young. He had left the space to his daughter.
There was a table against one wall with a few chairs and a sparse collection of food that Margaret had largely contributed to. She slipped today’s offering, [D1]a loaf of bread from the basket she’d been carrying, amongst the rest. There was a rocking chair by the fire, and a small chest of drawers. Other than that, the only thing in the room was the cot against one wall where Molly’s thin form was huddled.
She had been like this for some time, weakening every day over the course of nearly a year. It had been a painful thing to watch, but Margaret knew that Molly had no one else to care for her, not since shame had come upon her four years ago. The village seemed content to pretend that Molly Smith, the fisherman’s daughter, had already ceased to be.
Margaret slipped over to the bed and sat on a stool. She put her hand on Molly’s, coaxing her friend to roll over.
“Molly, I’m here. I came to see you again today.”
Molly turned only her head to see Margaret. Her arms and legs seemed impossibly thin and delicate beneath the coverlet. It made Margaret’s heart ache, for Molly had always been the stronger one, made hearty by her work at her father’s side.
“Where is she?” Molly asked, barely moving her lips as the question came out in a whisper.
Margaret frowned and turned to Mrs Tarrow. “I don’t know,” she said.
Mrs Tarrow came over to the bed. “I told you, Miss Smith, your daughter’s gone out to gather flowers for the table. It’s good for the girl to get some air now and again. She’ll be back soon.”
Molly turned her gaze to Margaret. There was a feverish glint in her eye. “No, I don’t want her to come back,” she said desperately. “I’ve already said goodbye. And I don’t want her to see me like this, I don’t want her to be afraid.”
Margaret felt a sickening stab of realisation at the words. For the first time, Molly sounded like a dying woman. They had known this was coming, but Molly had always talked as though a cure were possible, as though she would see the next summer or one day take her daughter into the village square again. Margaret had gone along with all of these dreams in the desperate hope that her friend would indeed recover. But now she saw something different in Molly’s eyes.
She reached out and took her hand. “Don’t say that, Molly. Of course you want her to come back. You should have let me take you to the seaside months ago – I thought it might help, and we should have tried. Maybe –”
“No,” Molly said firmly. “No, it’s over. I can feel it in my lungs. It’s been there so long and it has finished waiting.”
“Molly –”
“Maggie.” Her tone changed from confidence to a quiet pleading. “You have to do something for me.”
Margaret shook her head. “Don’t talk like this, Molly.”
“Listen. Please.” Molly leaned forward and clasped Margaret’s hand with her own. Her touch felt hot and dry. “It’s