At the edge of the crowd she paused to look at the few buildings ahead, along this road that stretched from Lincoln to London. It had the look of the sort of place where common whores did their trade, where she was like to find her sister. Suddenly she was remembering their mother. Her thin face rose up in Nan’s mind, how she looked in those last hours. Care for your sister and brother, she had said. Oh, how Nan had failed at that.

A sharp tug at her arm caused her blood to race, her hand to jerk out the knife and brandish it too quickly. It had been years since she had last been taken by surprise, and in a crowd at that. She wheeled around to find the shocked face of a young woman peering at her. Ruddy cheeks and yellow hair and wide-set, bright blue eyes that looked a little wild.

“Nan?”

She felt a tickle of recognition. Her body seemed to know before her mind did, her fingers going slack and her knife falling to the ground. Then all at once she was flooded with certainty.

“Bea.” She blinked up at her. Up. At her little sister. “Little Bea.”

She watched her sister shake her head in disbelief. “Nan. You’re Nan.”

She nodded. All of her felt numb. She thought she might never move from this spot. But even as she thought it they were embracing, a fierce and desperate clinging to one another. There was nothing else left in the world but her arms wrapped tight around her sister. Her sister who should be dead. Her sister who was tall and sturdy and grown to womanhood against all odds.

“Look at you.” Bea pulled back a little to look into her face, knocking Nan’s hood down, touching her hair. “You’re the spit of her, but in full health. God forgive me but I forgot her face until I seen you.”

Nan grasped her sister’s shoulders, frantically looking her up and down. Arms and legs, her body whole and sound, no illness or injury evident. She felt the hot rush of tears tumbling down her face.

“Look at the flesh on you.” She was sobbing now. Anyone would think it a tragedy, the way she wept, when it was the best thing she had ever seen. She gripped Bea’s arms, strong and healthy and perfect. “You’re not starved. I prayed for it.” There was no stopping the tears, no hope of speaking sensibly. “I prayed and prayed.”