Outside, New York rushed past at its usual heady pace, and Margaret felt a surge of excitement knowing that she, like everyone else, had her own destination, her own part to play in this vast, continual performance. The streetcar rumbled along on its tracks, with private carriages, hansom cabs, horses and carts, and men with barrows all jostling for space. To the rattle of horses’ hooves on the cobbles and the clang of carriage wheels was added the thump and clatter of building works. There was the usual constant bustle, an air of excitement, as if something significant was just about to happen. There were men in drab brown and black attire, labourers in leather aprons, working women in starched aprons. Crippled veterans from the Civil War sat on street corners, reminding her of Fraser Scott, which in turn reminded her to check that her purse was secure in her petticoat pocket.

As they headed farther south, the sidewalks became busier still, the roads more clogged, the noise deafening. At a wide intersection very far downtown, the impressive building of white marble which was City Hall loomed into view and Margaret, realising she had missed her stop, hurried to join the other passengers in disembarking. Looking around her, she could see few signs of poverty, but her experience in London and Dublin had taught her it took but a few steps from the wealthiest sections of a city to find the poorest. Her excitement faded a little, giving way to unease. In Dublin, she’d had Breda by her side. In Lambeth, she’d had Donald. Ought she to have brought Mouse or Bina with her after all?

Undoubtedly, but it was too late now, and it wasn’t that she was unfamiliar with such environments. It was broad daylight. A combination of confidence and wariness were all that were required, Margaret told herself. A man hawking newspapers looked like a good candidate for providing her with directions, but he was on the opposite side of street. Spotting a fleeting gap in the traffic, she picked up her skirts and ran as fast as she could across the road, feeling the hot breath of a cart-horse on her neck, hearing the angry yell of its driver. Heart pounding, she reached the other side. “Pardon me,” she said to the newspaper seller, “I’m looking for the Mission at Five Points.”

The man frowned. “There’s two of them, you know which one you’re after? The Ladies’ Mission is on Park Street, and the House of Industry is on Worth. You need to go back up Broadway four blocks and then onto Worth. You can’t miss them, one is diagonally opposite the other.”

“Thank you.”

“You watch your step now, miss.”

“I will.”