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how much of the Balley’s would you be requiring? Bottle or half-bottle? Mrs. Harris feeling nervy, is she, bless her?’
    Clara merely nods. Perhaps she reasons that an unspoken deception is better than an all-out lie. At all events, she does not contradict him.
    â€˜A bottle would be fine, thank you.’
    â€˜Very well, Miss, you wait there. I’ll just be a moment.’
    The old man disappears beneath the mahogany-topped counter, and can be heard to open several drawers and cupboards. When he finally rises again, he holds a blue-green jar for the benefit of Mrs. Harris, and a clear glass bottle of the patent drug, labelled ‘Balley’s’ in bold black type. He takes a smaller, empty bottle, and measures out the viscous dark brown liquid.
    â€˜Strong stuff this, Miss,’ he says, squeezing a stopper into the bottle, and placing both containers in a paper bag, padding it with a wrap or two of crushed newspaper. ‘You tell Mrs. H. to be careful – not more than a few drops after a meal.’
    â€˜I will tell her,’ Clara says.
    â€˜And I’ll put it on the account?’
    Clara pauses for a moment. ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ she says at last.
    â€˜Good day then, Miss. Perhaps you could remind Mrs. Harris, the account is due next week?’
    â€˜I will,’ she replies nervously, as she takes the little parcel. ‘Good day.’
    Clara opens the shop door and steps once more into the busy street. On the corner of Gray’s Inn Lane there is now a boy selling penny sheets, with a little crowd gathered about him, the newsprint dirtying their eager hands. Their talk is of ‘murder’ and ‘the Underground Railway’, but she does not take it in as she passes by. Rather, she makes her dash across Gray’s Inn Lane, hoisting her skirts as high as decency allows, running as fast as she can.

    It is not five minutes more before Clara White stands outside a house on Doughty Street, just north of Gray’s Inn. It is not a large house, and not too dissimilar tothe refuge, with the principal exception that it is finished with stucco painted a smart white, and its front steps are much better polished. She takes a moment to ensure her mother’s medication is concealed in her apron, and Mrs. Harris’s clearly on display, then descends the area steps, and opens the kitchen door.
    â€˜Where’ve you been?’ asks a voice, even before her face can be seen.
    â€˜I’ve got Mrs. H.’s medicine, Cook,’ she says gingerly, displaying the paper bag to her interlocutor.
    Cook, a fulsome-bodied creature with the muscular arms and ruddy complexion of so many of the women in her trade, scowls. ‘And look at the state of you,’ she exclaims, gesturing in exasperation at Clara’s muddied skirts.
    â€˜Well? What do you want? I can’t fly, can I?’
    â€˜Hmph!’ says Cook. Her snort of derision fills the room like a little explosion. ‘Don’t you cheek me, girl. Clean yourself up, that’s all.’
    â€˜Did they miss us?’ asks Clara, as she hunts for the clothes brush kept for such contingencies.
    â€˜I reckon not. Alice took ’em breakfast and said you were sick. I ain’t telling no lies, mind you. Not if they asks me, personal like.’
    â€˜They won’t ask, will they?’
    Cook snorts again and shrugs her large shoulders.
    â€˜If they didn’t have their heads so high in the clouds, they would. And this house would be a darn sight better for it. That’s my pennyworth, anyhow.’
    â€˜Yes, well . . .’
    As she speaks there are footsteps on the stairs, and another person appears, a small girl in a plain kitchen-maid’s outfit, carrying a silver tray. She is a couple of years younger than Clara, and smiles when she sees her.
    â€˜About time,’ she says, as she descends the steps.
    â€˜You scared us. I thought you were Mrs. H.,’ says