She lived up to her name, having the patience of a saint. Twiggy had claimed she’d named her boys after the apostles and her girls with divine traits in the hopes that God might bless her children as a result. As far as Mercy could see, her mum’s strategy hadn’t worked.

In the waning dusk, only a few other residents with visitors sat in the fenced-in courtyard. The evening had taken on a chill, and Mercy watched Patience struggle to regain her breath and suppress the cough that seemed to be getting worse with every visit.

“We should go in.” Mercy started to rise. “It’s too damp out here for you.”

“Come out with it.” Patience laid a hand on Mercy’s arm and held her in place. “I know you have something to say. I can see it in your eyes right so.”

Mercy shifted on the wooden bench. She didn’t want to burden Patience with her problems. Heaven knew her sister had enough of her own. But that was why she’d stopped by the workhouse, wasn’t it? Not only to give Patience the roll but to seek her sister’s advice.

“Twiggy lost her ragpicker job.”

Patience lowered the remainder of the roll to her lap and then swallowed hard, clearly having to work to get her last bite down.

“She told me to get myself a husband.” Mercy blurted the words as if they were a curse. Twiggy had told Patience the same thing several months ago during the bitter days of winter when both food and fuel had been scarce.

“No, no, no,” Patience said, dots of color flaring in her pale cheeks. “She can’t push you out now. Not when I came here so you’d be able to stay at home and be safe.”

At the rushed and passionate declaration, Mercy stared at her older sister. With only two years’ difference in their ages, and even when they’d both been hardly more than infants, Patience had taken care of her during the endless hours when Twiggy had been away at work.

With each new babe that had come along and stolen Twiggy’s time and affection, Patience had never wavered. She’d stepped in and loved Mercy with unending devotion. In some ways, Patience had been more of a mother than Twiggy had ever been.

But this? Coming to the workhouse for her? It was too much.

“Don’t be cross with me.” Patience grabbed Mercy’s hands. “I did what I had to—”

“We could have made it work.” Even as Mercy said the words, she knew there was no other way. Twiggy’s efforts to get Patience a job as a rag girl had failed, as had Ash’s efforts to find Patience work sorting through the piles at the ash yard. There were simply too many laborers needing employment and not enough jobs.