“I think we need to get a few new frocks for you.” I hang the dress in the closet as well as the half dozen other dresses that are in her trunk—all the same too-small size. At the bottom of the trunk is a photograph in an oval frame of a beautiful woman with golden hair and fair skin, and whose nose is the same shape as Kat’s.

“Is this your mother?” I pick up the frame to look more closely at the image and then glance at Kat, who is sitting on one of the beds, watching me.

The child nods and a veil of sadness seems to fall across her face. Oh, how I want this child to talk to me.

“I know what it is like to miss someone you love.” I come to Kat’s bedside, still holding the frame. “It’s the worst ache in the world. My da had an accident some years back and went to heaven, too. Just like your mother. I miss my father very much.”

Kat is still looking at me, but the look of sadness has merged with one of slight interest.

“Perhaps you want to sleep with her photograph under your pillow? It will seem like you’re resting your head in her lap. Would you like to do that?”

The child nods, climbs into bed, and lies back on the pillow. I slide the frame underneath.

“Do you say prayers at night?” I ask as I tuck the quilts up under Kat’s chin. It is chilly in the room despite the gas fire throwing an orange glow around the room. The child shakes her head.

“How about if I say a little one for both of us. Will that be all right?”

Kat blinks and says nothing.

“My mam used to say this one with me. Close your eyes, now.”

Kat obeys.

I close my eyes, too, and then speak the memorized Anglican prayer from a thousand bedtimes in Donaghadee. “Lord, we beseech thee mercifully to receive the prayers of thy people which call upon thee; and grant that we may both perceive and know what things we ought to do, and also may have grace and power faithfully to fulfill the same; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

When I open my eyes, I can see that Kat’s eyes are already open. She is staring at me, wide-eyed, in what nearly looks like wonder. Unexplainable tears are pricking at my eyes.

“Good night.” I kiss the child’s forehead and rise from the bed quickly. When I reach to turn out the light, I see Martin standing in the doorway with his arms folded comfortably across his chest as he leans against the frame. He’s been watching.

“Good night, Kat,” he says, and he steps into the room to turn off the fireplace. I follow Martin to the door and he pulls it shut behind us.

“Should we not leave the door cracked a little?” I ask. “Might she be afraid of the dark in a new place?”