“LGBTQA . . .” She flicked a curious glance up at Daisy, who flushed and muttered, “Yes. Well. Um . . . they were really friendly,” while shoving the badge into her bag.

“Is this one of yours? Black and Minority Ethnic?” The stranger didn’t hand the BME badge straight over to Daisy, clearly thinking there had been a mistake.

This time, Daisy didn’t mumble or blush.

“Actually, my granny’s black. She’s from Jamaica, but she moved here in 1957.” She took the badge and pinned it to the outside of her tote bag. “But my grandad’s white, and so was my mum.”

“Was?”

“Both my parents died when I was two. I grew up with my granny.” It was the most she’d ever said about her family since she’d arrived in Sheffield, and she didn’t even know this girl’s name. Maybe a name mattered less than a calm and interested expression, something Daisy was unaccustomed to. Susan’s face relaxed naturally into a scowl, and Esther only left pauses in conversation when she got distracted by something outside the window.

As friends went, they didn’t exactly invite quiet, meaningful sharing.

Still. Knowing someone’s name was always nice.

“Hi. I’m Daisy.” Daisy held her fingers up in a cautious wave, and her companion smiled.

“My name’s Elise.”

Aware that it was long past when she should have eaten, Esther scuffed her way miserably in the direction of the S.U. It was the nearest, cheapest place she could think of to get a hot meal, and after more than an hour of wandering in the cold, Esther was desperately in need of warming up.

She had looked everywhere. Or at least, everywhere in the vicinity of the park. She’d walked the paths like someone looking for a lost dog or, judging by how many people had stopped to ask, like someone who might have been selling drugs, which had her reconsidering today’s choice of distressed fishnets and giant hoodie.

It had all been fruitless. Goth Girl was gone. Disappeared like a graveyard shade that could only be seen at three minutes to midnight every third Sunday.

So much for finding her new best friend . . .

Esther indulged in a fantasy of bumping into Goth Girl on her way to a gig—something obscure and angry—only to find that they were both on their way to the same concert. Crowd-surfing and headbanging and hijinks would ensue, and Esther would finally have someone with whom to share makeup tips and music and (potentially, maybe, one day . . .) secondhand Victorian ballgowns.

Walking under the bridge toward the S.U., Esther had to push through a more purposeful crowd than usual. Besides the usual milling-about-ers under the bridge, sitting on the raised flower beds, chatting and smoking and messing about, there was a swell of people handing things out.