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most of the night and Phoebe was exhausted and tearful. The twins were with Phoebe’s mother more than they were at home, often staying overnight, and she knew for a fact that Josiah and Phoebe quarrelled once they were alone at night. She could hear them through the wall as she lay beside Nell and Mary trying to sleep. Mary . . .
    She stopped for a moment, putting the heavy baskets down at her feet and flexing her fingers. She was approaching the grid of terraced streets of the town now; the nice part of the walk - as she always termed the distance from the vicarage to this point - was over. She stood gazing down the main street from which the terraces branched off on either side but she wasn’t really seeing the town, her mind was occupied with Mary. She’d been worried about her sister for weeks but she couldn’t put her finger on why. Certainly Mary was a bit up and down lately and moody with it, but then the child had always been something of an attention-seeker and with her blonde curls and big blue eyes people tended to indulge her. If she had asked Mary once over the last weeks if she was all right, she’d asked her a hundred times, and always the answer was the same. She was fine. Nell had assured her there was no trouble at school and Phoebe said Mary always did her share in the house without being prompted, but still . . .
    Eve picked up the baskets and walked on. In spite of the September day having a definite nip to it she could feel the perspiration on her brow and her arms felt as if they had been stretched another six inches by the time she reached the back lane. She would be glad to get home.
    The kitchen was empty; clearly the others weren’t back from chapel yet. A new parson had started at the chapel recently after the old minister had retired and gone to live with his sister down south, and although he was nice enough, his sermons were twice as long as old Parson Riley’s. Eve placed the baskets in a corner of the room and sank down on to a chair, only to rise again in the next moment. She’d brush her hair and change into her Sunday frock before everyone came back; she would be ready to help with the dinner then. Phoebe’s mother had hurt her back at the end of last week and couldn’t have the twins which meant everything was noise and activity once the lively two-year-olds were home.
    She walked into the hall and reached the foot of the stairs before a sound above her alerted her to the fact she was not alone. She could never explain afterwards why she didn’t call out and ask who was there; maybe in the back of her mind she imagined Phoebe might have stayed at home with little Josiah to try and get some sleep, but if so it was not a conscious thought. Whatever, she climbed the stairs soundlessly and when she reached the small landing the sound came again, a kind of grunt followed by Josiah’s voice saying, ‘That’s it, that’s it, keep going, lass.’
    She might still have gone into the bedroom she shared with her sisters and the twins and begun to change, but for Mary’s voice, small and flat, reaching her. ‘My hand’s aching.’
    The door to Josiah and Phoebe’s room was open a crack and she crossed the landing, her heart beginning to thump. She pushed it wide open. Josiah was sitting on the edge of the bed, his trousers unbuttoned, with Mary standing between his legs. Eve looked at the thing in Mary’s hand; it seemed to have a life of its own because even as her sister saw her and sprang back from Josiah, it continued to twitch and move.
    ‘No!’ She didn’t recognise the cry as coming from herself. Her fingers reached for the thick jug standing in a bowl on top of the small table by the door, and she threw it as hard as she could. Josiah was fumbling with his clothing and didn’t see it coming. It hit the side of his head, sending him sprawling on to the floor where the water it had contained mingled with the blood pouring from the wound to his scalp.
    Mary was screaming