“Are you hungry?” Hester asked, passing her the steaming mug. “I have bread and a little cheese, if you like.”

The woman shook her head. “No, ta. I’ll just ’ave the medicine.”

Hester looked at her wan face and hunched shoulders. She was probably not more than twenty-five or twenty-six, but she was weary, and sleeplessness, poor food, and disease had robbed her of all energy.

“Would you like to stay here for the night?” Hester offered. It was not really what the house was for, but in the absence of those in greater need, why should this woman not use one of the beds?

A spark flared for a moment in the woman’s eyes. “Wot’ll it cost?” she said suspiciously.

“Nothing.”

“Can I go in the morning, then?”

“You can go any time you wish, but morning would be good.”

“Yeah, ta. That’d be fine.” She still did not quite believe it. Her mouth pulled tight. “In’t no point out there,” she said grimly. “No trade. Rozzers all over the bleedin’ place-like flies on a dead rat, they are. In’t nothin’ fer no one, even them wot’s still clean.” She meant free from disease, not like herself.

There was nothing for Hester to say. The truth would be a condescension this woman did not need. It would not give hope, only separate her from any sense of being understood.

“It’s that bleedin’ toff wot was snuffed last night,” the woman went on miserably. “Stupid cow! W’y anyone’d want ter go an’ do a thing like that fer, I dunno!” She took a sip of the herbs and twisted her mouth at the bitter taste.

“Sugar’ll probably make it worse,” Hester said. “But you can have some if you’d like.”

“Nah, ta.” She shook her head. “I’ll get used ter it.”

“Maybe they’ll find out who it was, and things will get back to normal,” Hester suggested. “What are you called?” It was not quite the same thing as asking her name. A name was a matter of identity; this was merely something to use in making her personal.