Mercy shook her head but plodded forward. If Mr. Martins would only offer her the street-cleaner job, she’d take it in a snap. But no amount of her pleading had changed his mind about giving the work to a young woman.

“Heaven save us all,” he’d exclaimed. “What’s the world coming to with women thinking they can do a fellow’s job?”

Mercy had wanted to retort that dodging betwixt horses and carriages to shovel up steaming piles of dung didn’t take any special talent. Surely a woman could do the job just as well as a man. But Mr. Martins made it clear enough he wouldn’t hire her, just like the dozen other people she’d approached that day.

“No matter,” she whispered. “I’ll find something. Just you wait and see.”

Clara’s head lolled, and Mercy shifted the infant again. Not quite two years old, the child didn’t weigh much more than Twiggy’s newborn babe. Even so, after carrying the girl for blocks, Mercy’s arms burned from the burden.

Through the foggy mist hovering in the narrow street, she glimpsed the Shoreditch Dispensary. Like the surrounding businesses, it leaned outward and was propped up by beams to the building across the street. The beams were almost like canes, meant to keep the aged, tottering structures from collapsing into the filth below.

Between high windows hung strings of soggy garments, so threadbare and gray they resembled the rags Twiggy sorted at the factory. Their soaking from the recent rain would wash away the grime for a moment, but never for long. In this part of London, the filth was as constant a companion as the rats.

“Almost there, dear heart.” If only she’d known how sick the girl was, she would have brought her earlier. At least in the late afternoon, the streets weren’t as crowded. And at least the rain had decided to show some compassion.

Upon reaching the dispensary door, Mercy fumbled at the handle, kicking her boots against the brick step, attempting to dislodge the muck. As she entered, the dark gloom of the hallway greeted her.

An old man crouched in the corridor cradling his arm. A mother sat opposite him, holding a bundle of blankets with a tiny bare foot poking through the fabric. The babe’s stillness, as well as the mother’s vacant gaze, told a story Mercy had heard too many times.

“Doctor!” Mercy strode down the hallway, her footsteps squeaking and squishing with each step. “I’m in desperate need of help.”