I take up my position behind one of the stew pots. The queue is longer than ever, and those in it have been made more desperate and more miserable by the cold. It is heartbreaking to see small children, some of them barefoot, sent out on their own to stand in line for hours to receive a meager bowl of soup. I am struck by the abundant red hair of one of the older boys, and it is only in my staring at him instead of concentrating on my ladle that I realize I know him.

“Freedom?” I ask quietly. “Freedom, can it be you?”

The boy frowns at me. I sense he recognizes me but that he is reluctant to acknowledge me. And who could blame him? Surely to be found in such a place, bowl raised for charity, is better done anonymously. Yet I must talk with him.

“Do you remember me? I came to your father’s house with Charlotte. It was some years ago, you were not such a grown-up young man then, of course. And … I came to visit Bram. Do you recall?”

At the mention of Bram’s name I fancy the boy brightens a little, but it is a fleeting alteration in his expression.

“Hurry up!” comes the cry from farther down the line.

I quickly spoon food into Freedom’s dish, and notice that the twins are with him, too. They are boisterous as ever, as only small children can continue to be, whatever their circumstances. It disturbs me to realize, though, that they still seem small, as if they have not grown at a normal rate. How much must their diet have suffered to have this effect? The queue shuffles forward and the boys begin to move on. I have heard of Mangan’s stance as a conscientious objector, and I know that his refusing conscription will ultimately land him in prison. I am assailed by a combination of guilt and longing when I think of that chaotic house in Bloomsbury. I have not returned there since losing Freddie, and Mangan’s attendance at coven meetings has become less and less frequent. He has all but withdrawn from society, his pacifist beliefs and his German mistress rendering him an outcast. He knows me well enough to understand my reluctance to visit. Even so, I fear I have been a poor friend, and the sight of the children here, reduced to queuing in the soup kitchen, makes me ashamed of myself. I will call on Mangan and see if there is anything I can do to help.

I fully intended to make my visit directly after my shift at St. Mary’s, but my plans are changed by the arrival of a note, delivered by Lord Grimes’s second footman. It is short, missing some of the Master of the Chalice’s customary warmth and its tone is urgent.