Mercy froze in the hallway, letting the heavy pot of water dangle at her side. Twiggy would never ask her to leave, would never demand it of her. But Mercy knew that was what her mum was implying. The truth was, Twiggy adored her babes but outgrew her older kids, especially when they were no longer useful.

Twiggy ducked into the tiny room with the slanted ceiling and soot-blackened walls. She lowered herself into the room’s only chair and set to nursing Paul, kissing the babe’s head and humming as she did so.

Charity, who’d lagged behind, finally stomped up the last few steps and bumped Mercy from behind, causing water to slosh from the pot.

The nagging voice spilled over too. See, Twiggy doesn’t need you anymore. And she doesn’t want you either. Maybe long ago, when you were a pretty little babe, she loved you. But now all you are to her is a burden. A big burden.

Mercy folded her hands around her sister’s. Not only were Patience’s hands little more than skin and bones, but her fingers were blackened and full of sores that came from picking oakum all day.

The tedious work was required of all who lived at the workhouse, mostly old men and women who could no longer survive on their own. The large facility also housed widows and their children along with other young women like Patience who’d decided they’d rather die in the workhouse than sell their souls on the streets.

They spent their days unraveling, unpicking, and uncoiling old pieces of rope until all that remained were thin fibers called oakum. The oakum was then mixed with tar to create a caulking that was applied to ships to make them watertight.

“There’s a dear,” Mercy said as Patience bit off another piece of roll. “If you don’t eat every little last crumb, I’ll throttle you, that I will.”

“Bless you, Mercy.” Patience chewed slowly, her once-delicate features now gaunt, her thick hair now stringy, her womanly form now emaciated. “I’m just trying to savor each bite.”

Although her sister never complained about her food rationing at the workhouse, Mercy heard tales about the gruel, that the gray liquid was so thin and distasteful that even ravenous dogs turned their noses up at it. Even so, the workhouse residents were given two servings of the gruel morning and night and licked their bowls so clean they hardly needed washing.

“You’re as thin as a chimney sweeper,” Mercy teased, hoping for a smile.

Patience gave her the ghost of one, which was soon chased away by a fit of coughing that wracked the young woman’s body. Even though people told Mercy she was as pretty as Twiggy, Mercy always thought Patience was more beautiful. Even now in her sickly condition, she radiated a beauty that contained all the loveliness of her sweet spirit.