Page 24

She bit her tongue and reached for another packet.

The pencil scratched again. “Do the residents contribute labor in exchange for their shelter? Sewing, laundry work?—”

“They do.” Abigail pressed her palm flat against the table to steady herself. “But many arrive malnourished or injured. We focus first on recovery.”

“Recovery without industry promotes indolence,” he sniffed.

Anger flickered in her chest, but she tamped it down. The parish’s financial support was essential to Beacon House’s survival. Antagonizing their representative would be foolish.

A small hand tugged at her skirt. She looked down to find Jenny, one of the younger girls, gazing up with feverish eyes.

“Miss Abby,” the girl whispered, “my head hurts awful.”

Abigail bent carefully, suppressing a wince as her ribs protested. “Let’s get you some medicine, shall we?”

She pulled Jenny onto her lap. It was the worst part—seeing them like this. If she could take their fevers into her own bones, she would. Every time.Working around the child on her lap, she mixed a dose of willow bark with honey and water, helping Jenny drink it slowly. The child wrinkled her nose, but drank it down with Abigail’s coaxing.

“Now, how about you rest on that pallet with Thomas?” she murmured, stroking the girl’s hair. “Alice will bring you a cool cloth for your head.”

As she straightened, little Georgie came toddling back into the room, his face streaked with tears. Mrs. Welling followed, looking harried.

“Sorry, miss. Cook needed help with the broth, and this one screamed the place down when I tried to leave him.”

Abigail scooped him up. He immediately nestled against her, his small fingers clutching at her collar.

Mr. Latchford cleared his throat loudly. “I require access to your intake records. How many are from outside our parish boundaries?”

“The records are on the shelf above the desk in Her Grace’s office. You have the key,” Abigail replied, patting Georgie’s back as he snuffled against her shoulder. “But our mission is to help those in need, regardless of their parish affiliations.”

“Need must be balanced against resources,” he replied primly. “And resources must be allocated according to proper jurisdiction and—” He broke off as Georgie twisted in Abigail’s arms to stare at the stranger.

The toddler’s face scrunched in deep, earnest concentration—a warning Abigail recognized a heartbeat too late.

With the force of a small cannon, Georgie unleashed a thunderous sneeze straight into Mr. Latchford’s face. The kind of sneeze that left no survivors.

Latchford jerked back with a strangled noise somewhere between a squawk and a gasp, arms flailing like a startled crane.He fumbled for his handkerchief—lace-edged, pristine, and tragically unprepared—and dabbed frantically at his face.

“Control that child!” he sputtered, stumbling back as Georgie sniffled. “This is—this is appalling. The sanitation standards here are clearly deficient.”

His gaze darted from the sniffling children to the medicines on the table, horror dawning on his narrow face.“They’re all ill? With the same symptoms?” His voice rose an octave.

“It’s a spring fever, Mr. Latchford,” Abigail explained, shifting Georgie to her other hip. “Quite common among children, especially those who’ve known hunger.”

“Fever spreads,” he said, scribbling frantically in his ledger. “Contagion must be contained. This building should be quarantined immediately.”

That would mean locked doors. Children turned away. Mothers left in need. And all fussy little man couldn’t stomach a sneeze.

“It’s not?—”

“You yourself sound ill. It is not limited to children.” He edged toward the door as his voice grew more shrill with each word. “I shall alert the parish authorities. A formal inspection must be conducted. The entire facility may need to be sealed.”

A child coughed wetly from the corner pallet. Mr. Latchford gasped and pressed his handkerchief to his mouth.

Something snapped inside her—like a thread pulled too tight for too long. She set Georgie down on a chair, where he immediately began to wail, and turned to face the administrator.

“Mr. Latchford,” she whispered, her damaged voice giving the words an eerie, rasping quality, “this is not a contagious disease.”

“You cannot know that.” His eyes darted nervously.