The alley was deserted. Usually, first thing in the morning, the yard gate to the wooden storehouse just up the alley was opened by an apprentice. But today was Sunday, and it was still closed. There was something, though. A sack, by the look of it, lying in the road. He couldn’t see it clearly enough to be sure what it was.

Then he heard another sound, nearby. A scuffling sound. It was almost under his window. A dog or a cat, perhaps. He pulled himself up, got his stomach on the window ledge and leaned out.

It was a dark-haired little girl. About five years old, by the look of her. She was wearing just a nightdress. Her small round face was looking straight up at him. Her eyes were wide with terror. She was trembling, white as a ghost. He gazed at her.

“What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer. She was staring at him with fear.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

She continued to stare at him.

“Why are you all by yourself?” he asked.

She still didn’t answer.

“I’m Simon,” he said.

“That’s my mother,” she whispered. She pointed up the alley. And Simon realized that she was pointing at the shape he’d thought was a sack.

“Where’s your father?” he said.

She didn’t reply, but she shook her head in a way that was so final that he supposed it could mean only one thing.

“Wait,” he said.

He crept down the wooden stairs. At the bottom, he paused. He heard his mother shoveling ash out of the grate in the kitchen. She’d be taking the ash out into the little yard at the back. His father usually went into his small store, off the yard, first thing in the morning.

He knew he should go and ask his parents what to do. He knew that, on no account, should he open the door or go outside. So he did exactly what most children in his place would do.

Very carefully, he slid back the bolts of the street door. He looked outside. The little girl hadn’t moved. The alley was empty. He stepped out and took her hand.

“Shh,” he whispered, “Don’t say a word.”

They stepped inside. He closed the door carefully and bolted it again. He could still hear his mother in the kitchen. Softly he led the little girl to the stairs and they crept up together. He put her in his bed. She was shivering, so he covered her with a blanket. Then he sat down beside her.

“What’s your name?” he whispered.

“Constance.”

“You’ll be all right here. But don’t make a noise. I wasn’t supposed to open the door.”

She lay still. She was still shivering a bit. She was watching him, still uncertain, he supposed, whether she was really safe there.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Nor do I,” he said.