Prologue
January, 1930
It was raining. There was nothing unusual about that, as it was London; it was only ever stiflingly muggy or pouring. No, the unusual thing was the two figures who seemingly appeared out of thin air, a book falling to the ground with a wet smack as they began rushing down the narrow street without so much as an umbrella—the surrounding streets otherwise devoid of life.
The taller figure was a man, his eyes were darting around wildly and shadowed with bruises. His breath left him in short heaving gasps, and it was clear he was ready to collapse.
But he remained upright.
His hand was clutching a child's, almost dragging her as he strode at a pace faster than her little legs could keep up with, her struggle only exacerbated by the long, old-fashioned cloak that kept tangling around her feet and obscuring her vision as the hood fell in front of her eyes.
His eyes darted to every street corner, every dark alley with a vigilance of one who knew they were being hunted. Not pausing, he picked the child up mid stride and placed her on his hip. “Not far now, Josie.” His lips tried to form a comforting smile, but all that formed was a bloodied grimace.
The girl did not speak. She only stared at the man with haunted eyes—far too old for a child so small—her neck itching under the cloak, but she kept her arms wrapped around her his neck.
London under the dark cover of cloud, appeared haunted. The uniform buildings all squashed claustrophobically together created a looming shadow that stretched out for miles. It was at the end of one of these streets that their destination revealed itself. Isolated from the other houses on the street stood a large, beige building. It was four stories high, and hidden behind a towering metal gate, intertwined with overgrown vines.
Green unfocused eyes stared up at the engraved words, uncomprehending their meaning as her father set her down on the doorstep. He crouched to her height, his lips pressing together tightly as he fought with the words in his throat. “Where’s mummy?”
Her father’s face broke at that moment, his head falling into his hands for a long minute as he tried to find some semblance of composure. “Mummy’s gone, little dove.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a silver locket with a strange crest inscribed on it. He placed it securely around her neck, finally removing the hood covering her head as he ran his fingers through dark strands of hair. “This necklace was hers; she wanted you to have it. I know it's hard to understand, but you must never take it off. Okay? Never.”
She blinked. “Even in the bath?”
“Even in the bath, dove.” He let out a breathy laugh before leaning his forehead against her own and breathing in, “I love you; never forget that. I’m so sorry.”
“You’re leaving, like, mummy?” Though she spoke in a childish tone, the look in her eyes aged her as she tried to understand a betrayal too great for her young mind to comprehend. “Don’t go.”
His smile was tinged with something bitter, “These people are going to take real good care of you, I promise. Better than I could hope to.”
“I don’t want better; I want you.”
The man began to openly weep, sweeping the little girl into a crushing hug, her fingers digging into his back and her face buried within his chest, naively thinking if she simply held on long enough, he would not leave. But, eventually, it had to come to an end, and with a strength the man did not think himself capable of, he peeled himself away and knocked on the heavy wooden door.
He was gone before it even opened.
An older woman opened the door with a scowl that dropped at the sight in front of her. Standing on the step was a girl clearly no older than four, her small form shivering as she tried to disappear into the old-fashioned cloak that dwarfed her. Dark strands of wet hair stuck to her face, and the older woman felt bile rise in her throat at the site of the sticky red substance coating the girl's neck.
Looking around, she determined whoever had left the girl was long gone—not an uncommon occurrence. “Come in, girl; you’ll catch your death out there.” Ushering the girl inside, she let her bellowing voice ring through the building: “Betsy, I need a towel!”
Josie glanced back at the slowly closing doors, her unfocused gaze trained on the sign outside that she could not decipher, but she knew it was of great importance to her.
ST. CATHERINE’S HOME FOR ORPHAN GIRLS