They scraped by like that for two years, keeping up the appearance of managing. Then on another sunny May afternoon, Mrs. Mooney told her daughter that she’d been to the doctor. That there had been blood in the toilet for some weeks now, but she had been afraid to seek help. And now it was too late. The cancer had gotten the better of her. She had two, perhaps three, months. She told Esther not to be afraid; she had an aunt and uncle in Canada who had promised to take her in. Once she was gone, they would send a ticket for Esther, and she would have a new life across the ocean. Imagine, getting to grow up in Canada, what a wonderful time she would have.

Eleven weeks and three days later, Mrs. Mooney was in the ground and the ticket hadn’t arrived. It never did.

Reverend Clarke invited her to stay with his family, at least for a while, until she found her feet. At fifteen, she was too young to stay on her own. Reverend Clarke had always been kind and had been at her mother’s side when she passed. He and his wife had three young children of their own.

On the first night, he showed Esther to her room, which was small but comfortable. Cosy, even. He sat wordlessly on the chair in the corner, waiting as Esther unpacked her things. When she laid her nightdress out on the bed, she paused, and looked at him.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, his voice soft and slithering.

Esther turned her back and undressed, hunched over, guarding as much of herself as she could. She climbed in and under the covers, pulled them up to her chin. Reverend Clarke remained in the corner, watching, as if she would forget his presence if he stayed still.

“I’d like to go to sleep now,” she said.

Reverend Clarke smiled and said, “Of course.”

He stood and came to the bedside, reached down, and touched his thumb to her lips.

“Poor girl,” he said. “Such an awful time you’ve had of it. Just let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.”

He left her there, turning out the light before closing the door.

For the next six nights, the ritual continued. Each night he stayed a little longer. Each night, he touched her somewhere else. On the seventh evening, he suggested she take a bath before dinner. Esther gratefully accepted. She had been washing at the handbasin in her room, but her hair felt lank and greasy, and the idea of a good soak seemed the most wonderful thing.

Reverend Clarke’s wife ran the bath for her, even tossed in a handful of salts. The bathroom filled with steam, and Esther could already feel the hot water on her skin. Mrs. Clarke shut off the taps and left her to it.