She followed the road north, her hand tucked inside her bag, fingers curled around the crocheted blanket. It should have been a ten-minute walk from the guesthouse on Atlingworth Street to John Street Police Station, but she could only walk slowly, one foot carefully in front of the other, measured breaths with each sharp stab of pain. Of course, Hope was right about her need for bed rest; her breasts were sore and she’d padded herself with rags, but every step was accompanied by a burning sensation and a fresh flow of blood.

And a rising panic that she would never see her daughter again.

She tried to imagine what the police would say when she told them what had happened, and what they would do to help.

There weren’t many people around, yet the streets seemed overly loud, every sound magnified: two pedestrians talked noisily as they strode by, a truck engine groaned angrily as the driver shifted gears, and a bus strained up the hill—it was as if she was seeing and hearing everything for the first time, as a baby might.

A homeless man was slumped in a doorway, and she crossed the street to avoid him, then felt a rush of pity before thinking again of her mother and the look of genuine affection on her face when she’d held Eadie for the first time.

Is this really happening to me, or is it a terrible dream?

The fog was giving way to a wind that blew with fury along the road, pulling her toward the corner of John Street. There the larger buildings provided shelter from the wind, and she sighed with relief when the blue lamp of the police station came into view.

Time’s ticking by; they could be anywhere by now. I have to hurry.

This was going to be the hardest thing she’d ever done: report her own mother, putting her at risk of being arrested and imprisoned. When Alice walked through these doors, it would change everything.

She cautiously mounted the steps, trying not to flinch at each movement. Her stomach was empty, and in her dizzy, weakened state she reacted too late as the double doors flew open and two policemen burst out, a man arm-locked between them; they nearly knocked her over. “Sorry, miss,” one of the policemen said, steadying her with his free hand. “You all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m certain. Thank you.”

The smell of alcohol was pungent, and they both watched as the other policeman steered the drunk down toward a waiting police car. The man was getting more agitated, his language becoming even more obscene.

Alice said, “It looks like you’re needed . . .”

“I know . . . and, again, I’m sorry.”