“Where are my aggies?” he asked me. “And my doll?”

“In your bag. I’ve given it to Mr. Hewitt. He’ll make sure you have anything you need. Just be helpful in return, that’s all. You’re going to be an apprentice!”

“But where are you going? I want to go with you, Mary. To Hoxton.”

“No. Hoxton is a terrible place, Henry. Not good enough for you.”

“Please, Mary. I don’t care. I want to be with you.”

I couldn’t remember when he’d become taller than I was, but I pulled him toward me in a fierce embrace, my chest heaving against his. Sweet Henry patted me on the back.

“Don’t cry, sister. Shhh.”

Soon he was whistling a song in my ear.

“Where is he?” Father demanded, when I got in the carriage without my brother in tow.

“Safe,” I said. “But I’ll tell you nothing more. And will never speak another word of Henry. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

Mother sniffled once and leaned her head against the glass. Eliza started to wail, then stifled it with her kerchief. Everina bit her quivering lip. My face was stone as I looked at Father, expecting to see his bulging anger, the way it strained at his collar. But what I felt instead was his weakness. And I saw that what’s as pitiable as a man who misuses his power is a man with no power at all.

I knew I had his anger in me, the hurry of my heart, my head sometimes on fire. This, my inescapable lot—my knot, my burl. But I wondered how I might grow around it, what good might I do, what bad undo, in myself, in the world? Even without that one perfect friend, or any friend at all, to ease my way.

All I knew in that moment, little bird, was that the buttering of toast is nothing compared to what we would do—what we must do—for those whose scars we share.

My brother would not be the last.

Mrs. B

September 2, 1797

How she wished the little girl had a name.

Mrs. B found Mary next morning sitting up in bed, bright-eyed, with color in her cheeks, asking for the infant, and for Fanny, wondering whether there might be some food for herself, and couldn’t she sit in a chair now—she’d had quite enough of her bed, was eager to receive visitors, and so on. It was as if she’d returned from a long, difficult journey at sea, and had her feet beneath her once more. The midwife felt her pulse, and drew her breasts just enough to tell her milk had come in. Mary wanted to try suckling again right away—to keep trying as long as it took.