‘I’ve almost broken you this time, haven’t I, Kilgour?’ the director grinned. ‘Give me another few minutes and I’ll have you sobbing as hard as little Jean.’

The office door swung inwards and Sister Madeline hurried into the room with a tray of bread and soup.

‘Haven’t you heard of knocking, woman?’ Tomas bellowed.

But the young nun set the wooden tray on the desktop with a defiant clatter. ‘Sausage and vegetable soup,’ she said, as she moved towards Marc and reached out her hand.

The director was furious. ‘What are you doing, girl? Get out.’

The young nun pretended not to hear. ‘I’ll clean his wounds now that you’re finished.’

The director gave Sister Madeline a look that seemed to question her sanity. ‘And what makes you so sure that I’ve finished with him? I might have barely begun.’

‘Marc has had enough, Director,’ she said, trying to sound firm, but clearly frightened. ‘Enough.’

Marc rolled on to his bum and sat up, but the director stepped in front of him.

‘This is my office and my orphanage,’ he boomed. ‘I deal with the boys as I see fit and if you don’t get back to the kitchen this instant I’ll report you to the bishop.’

The young nun clenched her fists. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘And when I’m brought before the bishop, I’ll be sure to mention your new suits and the bicycle. I’m sure you’ll be able to make a proper account of all the money paid by Mr Morel.’

The director reddened as he reared up on his heels and hurtled his cane back into the umbrella stand. ‘Take the boy then,’ he growled.

‘Thank you, Director,’ the sister said, nodding obligingly as she helped Marc on to his bare feet. ‘I hope you enjoy the soup, sir.’

Marc bunched his fists and bit down on his lip, determined not to let the pain show. He knew he owed Sister Madeline, but he was too upset to speak as she led him down the hallway and into a small room with a bed and a sink that was used as a sickbay.

There were boys playing outside and the sister shut the door and pulled the curtain before they got a chance to gloat about the state he was in. Marc sat on the edge of a small bed – ironically, his bum was one of the few parts of his body that wasn’t injured – while Sister Madeline ran a face cloth under the cold tap. She smiled reassuringly as she sat down and began dabbing the blood from his cheek.

‘Thank you for …’ Marc said, but he stopped before he broke down.

‘You don’t have to be proud,’ Sister Madeline said, as streaks of pink water drizzled down Marc’s face. ‘We’re all humble before God.’