The Unbound

​​‍​The news reached me on a grey morning in late autumn, delivered with all the careless cruelty of servants who had long since stopped pretending to respect me.

​​‍​"The young master returned last night, miss." Sarah's voice drifted through the morning room where I sat with my embroidery. "Escorted Miss Emily Percy all the way from London. Her divorce is finally settled, they say."

​​‍​My needle paused mid-stitch.

​​‍​"He stayed the entire night at Viscount Percy's residence." A pause, heavy with meaning. "To comfort her, you understand. And this morning, they departed together for the country estate. Cook says they'll be gone a fortnight at least."

​​‍​I set down my work with careful precision, my hands steady despite the strange numbness spreading through my chest. "Thank you, Sarah. That will be all."

​​‍​She bobbed a curtsy and left, no doubt racing to the servants' hall to embellish the tale. I could imagine what she would say—"Miss Hartley went white as a sheet," "Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold her needle," "The poor thing looked ready to burst into tears." They loved to see me humiliated, so they would always invent signs of my distress for their amusement.

​​‍​Last night, I had waited.

​​‍​I had prepared dinner with my own hands, using the small allowance I earned from selling my lacework to buy meat and vegetables. I had set the table in the cramped servants' parlor that passed for my quarters, had trimmed the candles twice to keep them burning bright. I had waited through the evening, through the long dark hours, until midnight struck and even hope had the sense to give up.

​​‍​A month ago, I had asked him. James—my betrothed, the Baron's eldest son. I had been in his household for two years now, nominally the future mistress, but in reality doing the work of a servant.

​​‍​The memory came back with uncomfortable clarity. I had found him in the library, sprawled in his favorite chair with the afternoon light slanting across his face. He had that look he sometimes wore—lazy, almost amused, as if the world existed purely for his entertainment.

​​‍​"James," I had said, keeping my voice steady. "The fifteenth of next month is my birthday. I thought we might share dinner that evening."

​​‍​He had looked up then, his gaze sliding over me with something I couldn't quite name. Not indifference—that would have been clearer. Like a cat playing with a mouse it had no intention of eating.

​​‍​"Your birthday." He had smiled, slow and deliberate. "Of course. I'll see what I can arrange."

​​‍​Not a promise. Not quite a refusal. Just enough to keep me hoping, to make me wonder if perhaps this time he meant it. His hand had brushed mine as I turned to leave, the contact so brief I might have imagined it. "I'll try to remember, Jane."

​​‍​That smile had stayed with me for weeks. I had turned it over in my mind like a puzzle, trying to understand what it meant. Trying to understand him.

​​‍​But now I understood perfectly. I had been a fool—not because I loved him, but because I had let myself believe that duty and patience might be enough. That if I made myself useful enough, indispensable enough, he might eventually honor the contract our fathers had signed when I was still a child.

​​‍​My grandfather had been a physician, skilled enough to save the old Baron's life. In gratitude, the Baron had promised his grandson to me—a marriage that would elevate my family far beyond our merchant-class origins. My father had been so proud. Had made me promise, on his deathbed, to hold onto this one precious thing he could leave me.

​​‍​"Don't let go, Jane," he had whispered, his hand cold in mine. "A woman alone has nothing in this world. Promise me you'll try."

​​‍​So I had tried. For two years, I had tried.

​​‍​I had arrived at the Baron's estate with a single trunk and a betrothal contract, only to discover within months that James had been in love with someone else for years. Emily Percy, the Viscount's beautiful second daughter. His childhood companion, the woman he would have married if she hadn't already belonged to another man.

​​‍​The servants had whispered about it constantly, their voices dripping with pity whenever I passed.

​​‍​"Poor thing doesn't know."

​​‍​"Someone should tell her."

​​‍​"Why bother? She'll learn soon enough."

​​‍​And I had learned. Had swallowed the knowledge like poison and stayed anyway, because where else could I go? What else did I have? My father's estate had been claimed by male relatives the moment he died. His fortune, such as it was, had been "managed" by uncles who made it clear I was no longer welcome. The betrothal contract was my only inheritance, my only claim to any kind of future.

​​‍​So I had made myself useful. I had risen before dawn to prepare James's breakfast, had mended his clothes and managed his household accounts, had done the work of three servants while pretending to be his future wife. I had told myself it was temporary, that once we married, things would change.

​​‍​But Emily's marriage had ended. And James had run to her the very night I waited for him.

​​‍​I rose and moved to the window, looking out at grounds that would never belong to me. The morning light was pale and cold, turning everything grey. Like my prospects. Like the future I had tried so hard to secure.

​​‍​Two years of my life, spent in service to a man who had never wanted me. Two years of early mornings and late nights, of biting back anger and swallowing pride, of pretending not to hear the servants' mockery or see the contempt in Lady Russell's eyes.

​​‍​I was twenty years old. Still young enough to find work, to build something from nothing. I could read and write, keep accounts, manage a household. Surely someone would hire me as a governess or companion. The work would be no harder than what I already did, and at least I would be paid for my labor.

​​‍​The decision settled over me quietly, without drama. I would leave. Not in anger or heartbreak, but simply because there was no point in staying. James would marry Emily—of course he would. He had been waiting for this moment for years. And when he did, what would become of me? Would I stay here, serving his household, watching them live the life that was supposed to be mine?

​​‍​No.

​​‍​I had kept my promise to my father. I had tried. For two years, I had done everything I could to make this work.

​​‍​I smoothed my skirts and walked toward the door.

​​‍​The morning room stood slightly ajar when I reached it. Lady Russell sat at her writing desk, her posture perfect even in the privacy of her own home. She was everything a Baroness should be—elegant, refined, utterly certain of her place in the world.

​​‍​I knocked softly. "Lady Russell? Might I have a word?"

​​‍​She looked up, and I watched her expression shift from mild curiosity to poorly concealed distaste. "Miss Hartley. What is it?"

​​‍​I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. "I've come to inform you of my decision to leave."

​​‍​For a moment, she simply stared. Then her lips curved upward, not quite a smile but something close. "How sensible of you, my dear."

​​‍​"I thought you would approve."

​​‍​"Approve?" She set down her pen with deliberate care. "I am delighted. I confess, I had wondered how long it would take you to accept reality. My son has been... preoccupied of late."

​​‍​Preoccupied. What a delicate way to describe abandonment.

​​‍​"I understand perfectly, my lady." I kept my voice level, my hands folded loosely before me. "Which is why I believe it best for everyone if I remove myself from the situation. However, before I go, there is the matter of compensation."

​​‍​The almost-smile froze on her face. "Compensation?"

​​‍​"For my labor these past two years. I have worked in this household without wages, performing duties well beyond what might be expected of a guest. Surely you can agree that I am owed something for my time."

​​‍​Her eyes narrowed. "You lived under our roof. Ate our food—"

​​‍​"Food I often prepared myself. I mended clothing, managed accounts, supervised servants. I did the work of your housekeeper and received none of the wages." I met her gaze steadily. "I am not asking for much. Fifteen pounds for two years of service. And five pounds more for the dissolution of the betrothal contract—a modest sum, considering the circumstances."

​​‍​"Twenty pounds." Her voice was sharp as glass. "You want to sell your betrothal for twenty pounds?"

​​‍​"I prefer to think of it as fair compensation for services rendered." I paused. "My father kept all correspondence regarding the betrothal agreement. Including several letters from the late Baron promising that his son would honor the contract. I'm sure such documents would be of interest in a breach of promise suit, should I choose to pursue one."

​​‍​The threat hung in the air between us. We both knew I had little chance of winning such a suit—I had neither money nor connections. But the scandal alone would be devastating. The Russell name dragged through the courts, all of London gossiping about how the Baron's son had abandoned his betrothed for another man's wife.

​​‍​Lady Russell's face had gone white. She didn't look at me, but reached for the bell pull instead. Her lady's maid entered promptly. "Fetch twenty pounds from the accounts room," she said coldly. "And bring paper and pen."

​​‍​The maid withdrew and returned quickly with a purse and writing materials. Lady Russell pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote several lines in sharp, angry strokes, then pushed the paper toward me.

​​‍​"Sign it," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. "This is our agreement. You take this twenty pounds and never set foot in the Russell household again, never contact my son for any reason, never mention this betrothal in London society. If you violate these terms, you will return double the amount plus damages."

​​‍​I glanced at the paper. Her handwriting was as sharp and furious as her current mood. But the content meant nothing to me—I had no intention of returning, no intention of seeing James again, no intention of leaving any trace of myself in this world.

​​‍​I took the pen and signed my name.

​​‍​Lady Russell practically snatched the paper back, scrutinizing it carefully before nodding to her maid. The maid handed me the purse, her face bearing the same contempt as her mistress's.

​​‍​I accepted the purse, feeling its weight in my palm. Two years of my life, reduced to a bag of coins. But it was mine. Honestly earned, fairly claimed.

​​‍​"You won't see me again, my lady," I said quietly. "Goodbye."

​​‍​I walked out of that room with my head high. Behind me, I heard something shatter against the wall—a teacup, perhaps, thrown in rage.

​​‍​I didn't look back.

​​‍​I left the Russell estate the same way I had arrived two years ago—with a single wooden trunk that barely filled halfway.

​​‍​The difference was the weight in my pocket. Twenty pounds in coin, wrapped carefully in a handkerchief and tucked into the inside pocket of my traveling cloak. It was the most money I had ever possessed. The scattered pennies I had earned over two years from selling lacework and embroidery didn't add up to half this sum. And this time, I had claimed it by my own courage.

​​‍​The morning was cold as I walked down the long drive, past the perfectly manicured hedges and pristine lawns that had never been mine to enjoy. I didn't look back at the house. There was nothing there I wanted to remember.

​​‍​At the coaching inn, I purchased a third-class ticket on the canal boat to Dover for two pennies. The boat was crowded and damp, filled with working people and their bundles, the air thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and cheap tobacco. I found a corner to sit, my trunk at my feet, and watched London slip away through the grimy window.

​​‍​The journey took all day. By the time we reached Dover, the sun was setting, painting the harbor in shades of grey and amber. I had never seen the sea before. The vastness of it took my breath away—endless water stretching to meet an endless sky, both the same cold metallic color in the fading light.

​​‍​I found a cheap lodging house near the docks, a narrow building that smelled of fish and damp wood. The landlady looked me over with sharp, assessing eyes.

​​‍​"Three pennies a night," she said. "Payment in advance. No men in your room, no cooking, no laundry."

​​‍​I paid for two nights. The room was barely large enough for a narrow bed and a washstand, with a single small window that looked out onto a brick wall. But it was clean enough, and the door had a lock that worked. I lay down on the thin mattress, still wearing my cloak, and listened to the unfamiliar sounds of a port city—distant shouts, the creak of ships, the cry of gulls.

​​‍​Finally, after two years, I was truly alone. No servants watching my every move, no James to serve, no Lady Russell to please. Just me, and twenty pounds, and the daunting task of building a life from nothing.

​​‍​I should have been terrified. Instead, I felt strangely light.

​​‍​The next two days, I walked the streets near the harbor, looking for lodgings I could afford. Most landladies took one look at me—young, alone, with no references—and shut their doors. The few who would consider renting to me wanted prices I couldn't sustain. At three pennies a night, my money would last less than four months. I needed something cheaper, and I needed it quickly.

​​‍​I was beginning to despair when I found the cottage.

​​‍​It sat at the end of a narrow lane, a small stone building with a tidy garden and lace curtains in the windows. A hand-lettered sign in the window read: "Room to Let."

​​‍​I knocked on the door, trying to look respectable despite my worn traveling dress and single trunk.

​​‍​The woman who answered was elderly, perhaps seventy, with white hair pinned neatly under a lace cap and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. She looked me up and down, but without the sharp judgment I had grown accustomed to.

​​‍​"I saw your sign," I said. "About the room?"

​​‍​"Six shillings a month," she said. Her voice was soft, cultured. "It's small—just the back room off the kitchen. But it's clean and dry."

​​‍​Six shillings. A price that would let me settle in with peace of mind while I looked for work.

​​‍​"May I see it?"

​​‍​She led me through her cottage—neat and comfortable, though shabby in the way of homes that had once been prosperous but had seen better days. The room she showed me was indeed small, barely larger than my room at the lodging house, but it had a proper window with real glass, and I could see a small garden beyond.

​​‍​"I'm Mrs. Shaw," the old woman said. "I've lived here forty years. My husband was a ship's captain. He's been gone twenty years now." She paused, studying me. "You're very young to be on your own."

​​‍​I met her eyes. "I'm twenty. My father died two years ago. I've come to Dover to find work."

​​‍​"No family?"

​​‍​"None that would claim me."

​​‍​She nodded slowly, as if this confirmed something she had already suspected. "References?"

​​‍​This was the question I had been dreading. "No, ma'am. I... I don't have references."

​​‍​I waited for her to refuse, to close the door as so many others had. Instead, she tilted her head, still studying me.

​​‍​"What kind of work are you looking for?"

​​‍​"Governess, or companion. I can read and write, keep accounts, manage a household." I hesitated, then added, "I can also bake. I'm quite good at it, actually."

​​‍​"Are you?" Something in her expression softened. "My joints aren't what they used to be. I can't stand at the stove like I once could. If you'd be willing to share the kitchen—do some of the cooking and baking in exchange for use of the facilities—I could lower the rent to five shillings a month."

​​‍​Five shillings. It was more than I had dared hope for.

​​‍​"Yes," I said quickly. "Yes, I would be very willing."

​​‍​Mrs. Shaw smiled then, a real smile that reached her eyes. "Then the room is yours, Miss...?"

​​‍​"Hartley. Jane Hartley."

​​‍​"Welcome to Dover, Miss Hartley."

​​‍​I moved in that afternoon. Mrs. Shaw helped me carry my trunk to the small room, refusing to let me manage it alone despite her age. I unpacked my few belongings—two dresses, some underthings, my father's pocket watch, the betrothal letters I had threatened Lady Russell with, and my sewing kit with its precious needles and thread.

​​‍​That evening, I made dinner for both of us using the ingredients Mrs. Shaw had on hand. Nothing elaborate—just a simple stew and fresh bread—but I put care into it. Mrs. Shaw ate two helpings and complimented the bread three times.

​​‍​"You weren't exaggerating about your skills," she said. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

​​‍​"My father's household, after my mother died. And then..." I hesitated. "I spent the last two years in service to a Baron's family. The young master was very particular about his food."

​​‍​It wasn't quite a lie. I had been in service, in every way that mattered.

​​‍​Over the next few days, I fell into a routine. I rose early to bake bread and make breakfast for Mrs. Shaw and myself. Then I would walk the streets, asking at shops and households about work. But without references, no one would hire me. I returned each evening to make dinner, and afterward, I would bake—practicing the pastries and cakes I had learned to make for James's afternoon tea.

​​‍​Mrs. Shaw loved everything I made. She would sit in her chair by the fire, eating scones with jam or delicate lemon cakes, exclaiming over each bite.

​​‍​"My dear," she said one evening, "you should try selling these. There are a few tearooms and pastry shops in town—perhaps they would buy from you."

​​‍​The idea intrigued me. I had noticed, in my walks around the harbor, that there were plenty of bread sellers but few who sold fine pastries. Perhaps there really was a market.

​​‍​The next day, I took a basket of my baked goods to several respectable-looking tearooms and shops in town. I had thought the owners would at least taste them, but most refused without even looking.

​​‍​"We have regular suppliers."

​​‍​"We don't need outsiders."

​​‍​"Go home, girl. This isn't work for you."

​​‍​The last shop owner was almost impatient: "You think you can just bake a few cakes and sell them to us? Do you have a shop? A license? A guarantor? You can't do business with nothing."

​​‍​I returned to Mrs. Shaw's house with my basket still full, but a new idea forming. If no one would buy my pastries, and no one would hire me—then why shouldn't I open my own small shop? At least then, I would answer only to myself.

​​‍​The next day, I began looking at shop spaces instead of asking for work. Most were far beyond what I could afford, but there was one—a tiny storefront near the docks, barely large enough for a counter and a small display—that might be possible. The rent was steep, but if I could build up enough business...

​​‍​I approached the landlord, a portly man who looked me up and down with obvious skepticism.

​​‍​"You want to rent a shop? You're barely more than a girl. What would you sell?"

​​‍​"Pastries and cakes. I'm an excellent baker—"

​​‍​He waved a dismissive hand. "I need someone reliable. Someone established. Not some young woman who'll run off or get married in a month." He turned away. "Come back when you have a husband or a father to vouch for you."

​​‍​I tried two more landlords over the next week. Both refused for similar reasons. I was too young, too female, too alone. One actually laughed in my face.

​​‍​The shop I wanted would be rented to someone else by the end of the week. I could feel the opportunity slipping away, and with it, my hope of real independence.

​​‍​In desperation, I thought of Mrs. Shaw. She was respected in the neighborhood—I had seen how shopkeepers greeted her, how people nodded respectfully when she passed. If she would vouch for me, act as my guarantor, perhaps the landlord would reconsider.

​​‍​But how could I ask? She had already been so kind, offering me a room when no one else would. To ask for more seemed impossibly presumptuous.

​​‍​Still, what choice did I have?

​​‍​I decided to make something special to sweeten the request—a batch of my best scones and a beautiful fruit cake, the kind James had always particularly liked. I would present them as a gift, and then, if the moment seemed right, I would ask.

​​‍​I was carrying these offerings on a tray, practicing what I would say, when I rounded the corner into Mrs. Shaw's sitting room and collided directly with a wall of solid muscle.

​​‍​The tray flew from my hands. Scones sailed through the air. The fruit cake tumbled end over end and landed—with what seemed like deliberate precision—squarely on the abdomen of a tall, broad-shouldered man in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

​​‍​For a moment, we both simply stood there, frozen in horror. The cake slid slowly down his front, leaving a trail of crumbs and frosting on what I now saw was an exceptionally well-tailored waistcoat.

​​‍​"Oh God," I breathed. "Oh God, I'm so sorry—"

​​‍​The man looked down at his ruined waistcoat, then at the scattered scones, then at me. His expression was unreadable.

​​‍​He was young—perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six—with dark hair and strong, handsome features. Despite the cake on his clothing, he carried himself with the kind of easy confidence that spoke of good breeding. But what was he doing in Mrs. Shaw's cottage? And why was he in shirtsleeves, as if he belonged here?

​​‍​A terrible thought struck me. Had Mrs. Shaw lied about living alone? Was this her son, or worse, some man she kept? Or was he—

​​‍​"A thief," I said aloud, before I could stop myself. My hand went to my pocket, where I kept my remaining money. "You're robbing Mrs. Shaw."

​​‍​His eyebrows rose. "I'm what?"

​​‍​"She's an old woman, alone. How dare you—" I looked around frantically for something to use as a weapon. My hand closed on a brass candlestick from the side table. "Get out. Get out before I call the constable."

​​‍​He stared at me for a long moment, and then, incredibly, he started to laugh.

​​‍​"You think I'm a thief?" He brushed cake crumbs from his waistcoat, still grinning. "That's a first."

​​‍​"Stop laughing! This isn't funny—Mrs. Shaw could be hurt, or—"

​​‍​"Jane?" Mrs. Shaw's voice called from the garden. "Is that you? I thought I heard—oh!" She appeared in the doorway, taking in the scene—the scattered pastries, the cake-covered man, me brandishing a candlestick like a club. "Oh my. I see you've met my nephew."

​​‍​The candlestick slipped from my nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor.

​​‍​"Your... nephew?"

​​‍​"My great-nephew, to be precise," Mrs. Shaw said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Arthur, this is Miss Jane Hartley, my lodger. Jane, this is Arthur Shaw. He's visiting from London for a few days."

​​‍​I wished, quite sincerely, that the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

​​‍​If I could have died of mortification in that moment, I would have counted it a mercy.

​​‍​"I'm so sorry," I managed, my face burning hot enough to bake bread on. "I thought—I didn't know—Mrs. Shaw never mentioned—"

​​‍​"That's because I didn't know Arthur was coming," Mrs. Shaw said, her tone gentle despite the amusement dancing in her eyes. "He has a habit of appearing unannounced. Arthur, dear, why don't you go change your waistcoat while I help Jane clean up this mess?"

​​‍​Arthur—Mr. Shaw—was still grinning, apparently finding the whole situation hilarious rather than offensive. "No need to apologize, Miss Hartley. It's not every day a beautiful woman throws cakes at me. Though I must say, your aim is impressive."

​​‍​"I wasn't throwing—I didn't mean to—" I knelt to gather the scattered scones, unable to meet his eyes. "I'll replace your waistcoat. And the cake. I'll make you another cake."

​​‍​"I look forward to it. Preferably handed to me rather than launched at my person." He sketched a small bow, still smiling, and disappeared up the stairs.

​​‍​I remained on the floor, mortified, picking up crumbs.

​​‍​Mrs. Shaw settled into her chair with a soft laugh. "Don't fret, my dear. Arthur's not easily offended. If anything, I suspect you've made his week considerably more interesting." She paused. "Though I am curious—why were you carrying my best scones and that lovely cake through the sitting room?"

​​‍​I sat back on my heels, the ruined cake tin in my hands. There was no point in pretense now. "I was bringing them to you. As a gift. I wanted to... I needed to ask you something."

​​‍​"Ask away, child."

​​‍​The words came out in a rush. "There's a shop space near the docks. Small, but perfect for selling pastries. The landlord won't rent to me—I'm too young, and female, and alone. But if someone respectable vouched for me, someone the community knows and trusts..." I met her eyes. "I know it's asking too much. You've already been so kind. But I don't know who else to turn to."

​​‍​Mrs. Shaw studied me for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. "You want to open a shop? I remember you said you were looking for a governess position."

​​‍​"I tried. No one will hire me without references." I paused. "And I tried selling my pastries to the tearooms and shops, but they all refused. If I can't find work and no one will buy from me, then why shouldn't I open my own shop? At least then, I answer only to myself."

​​‍​"Brave," she said softly. "Or foolish. Possibly both." She was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Show me this shop tomorrow. If it's suitable, I'll speak to the landlord."

​​‍​I stared at her. "You will?"

​​‍​"On one condition." Her eyes twinkled. "You must promise to save me at least two scones every day. My weakness for your baking may yet be my downfall."

​​‍​Relief flooded through me so powerfully I felt lightheaded. "Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Shaw. Thank you so much."

​​‍​"Don't thank me yet. Running a shop is harder than you think, especially for a young woman. But I suspect you already know about hard work."

​​‍​I did.

​​‍​The next day, Mrs. Shaw accompanied me to meet the landlord. She was a different woman outside her cottage—straight-backed, imperious, speaking to the portly man with the kind of quiet authority that came from decades of commanding respect. Within twenty minutes, I had signed a lease for six months, with the option to extend if the business proved successful.

​​‍​The shop was tiny—barely larger than Mrs. Shaw's sitting room—with a single grimy window facing the street and a back room with a small stove. But it was mine. My name on the lease, my risk, my future.

​​‍​I spent three days scrubbing every surface until it gleamed, whitewashing the walls, sewing cheerful yellow curtains for the window. Mrs. Shaw donated a small table and two chairs. I used part of my twenty pounds to buy flour, sugar, butter, and eggs in bulk.

​​‍​On the fourth day, I opened for business.

​​‍​The first customer was a sailor who bought a single scone, examined it suspiciously, took a bite, and immediately bought three more. By noon, I had sold half my inventory. By evening, I was sold out completely.

​​‍​I walked home that night with coins jingling in my pocket—not many, but earned by my own hands, my own skill. No one had given them to me out of pity or obligation. I had made something people wanted, and they had paid me fairly for it.

​​‍​It felt like victory.

​​‍​The business grew slowly but steadily. Word spread among the sailors and dockworkers that the little shop near the harbor sold the best pastries in Dover. I rose before dawn each day to bake, spent the daylight hours serving customers, and fell into bed each night exhausted but satisfied.

​​‍​Three weeks after I opened, I arrived at the shop one early morning to find a girl huddled in the doorway.

​​‍​She was perhaps sixteen, thin and pale, with a fading bruise on her cheek. When I approached, she scrambled to her feet and took a step back.

​​‍​"Sorry, miss, I'll go right away—"

​​‍​"Wait." I looked at her. Her dress was torn, her hands red with cold. "How long have you been here?"

​​‍​"Just... just tonight, miss. I'm not a thief, I swear—"

​​‍​"I didn't say you were." I unlocked the shop door. "Come inside. It's too cold out here."

​​‍​She hesitated, then followed me in. I lit the stove and she immediately moved closer, holding out her trembling hands.

​​‍​"What's your name?"

​​‍​"Ellie, miss."

​​‍​"Why are you sleeping in the street, Ellie?"

​​‍​She looked down. "My da... he sold me to an old butcher to pay his debts. Two pounds. I ran away."

​​‍​My hands paused in the dough I was kneading. "How long ago?"