I tried to hush the gate as I opened it, but it still let out a sweet note, disturbing a figure that I hadn’t noticed hiding in the dark.

“Tilda, what on earth?”

Gareth took the key from me and opened the door. We ushered Tilda into the kitchen and turned on the light. She was a mess.

“What’s happened?” Gareth said.

“You don’t want to know, and I’m not going to tell you. But I need your help. I’m so sorry, Esme. I wouldn’t have come, but I’m hurt.”

The sleeve of her dress was filthy—no, not just filthy, burned. It hung in charred shreds. One hand was cradled in the other.

“Show me,” I said.

The skin of her hand was mottled, red and black—dirt or burned skin, I couldn’t tell. My funny fingers prickled with some kind of memory.

“Why didn’t you go straight to a doctor?” said Gareth.

“I couldn’t risk it.”

I searched the cupboards for ointments and bandages, but all I found were plasters and cough medicine. Lily would have stocked the cupboards better, I thought. And she would have known what to do.

“Gareth, you have to get Lizzie. Tell her to bring her medicine pouch—something for burns.”

“It’s long after midnight, Es. She’ll be asleep.”

“Maybe. The kitchen door is always open. Call up the stairs; don’t frighten her. She’ll come.”

When Gareth had gone, I filled a bowl with cold water and put it on the kitchen table in front of Tilda. “Will you tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“Why? Do you think I’d disapprove?”

“I know you’d disapprove.”

I asked the question I barely wanted the answer to. “Was anyone else hurt, Till?”

Tilda looked at me. A shadow of doubt, of fear, crossed her face. “I honestly don’t know.”

Pity rose in my chest, but anger overtook it. I turned away and pulled open a drawer, took out a clean tea towel and slammed the drawer shut. “Whatever it is you’ve done, what do you think it will achieve?” When I turned back to Tilda, the doubt and fear had left her.

“The government isn’t listening to all the eloquent, sensible words of your suffragists. But they can’t ignore what we do.”

I took a deep breath and tried to focus on her hand. “Does it hurt?”

“A bit.”

“Mine didn’t, so that’s probably good.” I lifted her arm so her hand hovered over the bowl of water. When she resisted, I pushed it under. She didn’t complain. Giant blisters had deformed her fingers. Her whole hand had started to swell. Below the water, the charred and angry skin was magnified and shocking against the pale slenderness of her wrist.

“I want the same things as you, Till, but this isn’t the right way. It can’t be.”