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faces, but they were as innocent as her own three children. Seeing the men walking to and from the paper mill only solidified her gratitude for everything she had. There was no rhyme or reason to this life, it seemed. She could just as easily have been one of them.
    Edmund turned the carriage onto a small, narrow road. A moment later, the horses slowed, and then came to a stop. Adelaide gathered her hat while she waited for Edmund to open the door. He carried the packages in his arms and followed her up the crumbling steps to the crowded hall that acted as an entryway for the tenants of Sarah’s building.
    They made their way carefully up the steps. The treads were solid underfoot, though the wood had long ago lost its polish. Children scampered to and fro, and Adelaide heard the sounds of shouting from somewhere above their heads. The smell of cooked onions permeated the air. Adelaide did not find it unpleasant.
    She was relieved when they came to the second-floor landing. It was not the dirt or smell that bothered her but the confines of the narrow stairwell, the too-low ceiling above her head. She was used to the large rooms at Birchwood. To the sweeping grounds that opened and expanded the world on all sides, the never-ending sky of the Otherworlds.
    Small spaces made her skin clammy and her heart beat too fast.
    She made her way down the hall with Edmund in tow, stopping at the fifth unmarked door and rapping on it. At first, all was silent, but a moment later Adelaide heard the soft cry of an infant, followed by shuffling and the sound of approaching footsteps.
    “Who’s calling?” Sarah asked from the other side of the door.
    “It’s Adelaide.” And then, worried that this might be too familiar a greeting for Edmund’s liking, she stood taller and corrected herself. “Mrs. Milthorpe.”
    “Oh!” There was a jangle as Sarah disengaged the chain lock. The door opened, and Sarah stood there, regarding Adelaide with a surprised smile. “Mrs. Milthorpe! I didn’t know you were calling today.”
    “Yes, well, it was so cold this morning. I wanted to make sure you and the baby have everything you need.” Adelaide turned to Edmund, whose arms were full. “Would you take everything inside for Miss Montrose?”
    Edmund looked to Sarah for approval. She stepped aside, opening the door wider, and he crossed the threshold into the two-room flat. He stopped at the small table in the kitchen and began to unburden himself of the packages. Then he turned to the firebox, the flames so low as to be almost nonexistent, the wood glowing only faintly orange. He set the wood on the floor and set to stoking the fire with it.
    Sarah had followed him in, shutting and locking the door behind them. Now she looked upon the supplies with shock, picking up each item.
    “Flour…and sugar…and…” She turned to Adelaide, her blue eyes shining. “But you didn’t have to…Goodness! This is so kind.”
    Adelaide smiled, waving her off. “Nonsense. I’m simply being neighborly. To say nothing of the many times you have provided me with much-needed company.”
    Sarah lifted a small tin from the bundle of supplies. “You’ve brought tea!”
    Adelaide laughed. “Of course.” She lifted one of the smaller packages. “And biscuits.”
    Sarah clapped her hands. “Lovely. I insist that you stay and share them with me.”
    At this, a small cry sounded from a corner near the hearth.
    “That will be Mary.” Sarah made her way toward the cradle against the wall, reaching into it and withdrawing a plump, pink-cheeked bundle wrapped loosely in a blanket. She cooed, kissing the baby’s cheek. “Do you mind holding her for me while I make the tea?”
    She passed the child to Adelaide without waiting for an answer. Adelaide had to force herself not to shrink away.
    “I could make the tea if you like.” Adelaide spoke to Sarah, avoiding the eyes of the squirming package in her arms. “I’m certain Mary would prefer her mother over