“’Tis the end of being a child.”
Darkly comic, Lib found it, this slip of a thing thinking of herself as a grown woman. Next she peered at the writing on a tiny silvery oval, no bigger than the top of her finger.
“That’s my Miraculous Medal,” said Anna, lifting it out of Lib’s hand.
“What miracles has it done?”
That came out too flippant, but the girl didn’t take offence. “Ever so many,” she assured Lib, rubbing it. “Not this one, I mean, but all the Miraculous Medals in Christendom together.”
Lib didn’t comment. At the bottom of the box, in a glass case, she found a tiny disc. Not metal but white, this one, stamped with a lamb carrying a flag and a coat of arms. It couldn’t be the bread from Holy Communion, could it? Surely that would be sacrilege, to keep the Host in a toy box? “What’s this, Anna?”
“My Agnus Dei.”
Lamb of God; Lib knew that much Latin. She flipped up the lid of the case and grated the disc with her nail.
“Don’t break it!”
“I won’t.” It wasn’t bread, she realized, but wax. She laid the box in Anna’s cupped hand.
“Each one’s been blessed by His Holiness,” the child assured her, clicking the lid shut. “Agnus Deis make floods go down and put out fires.”
Lib puzzled over the origin of this legend. Considering how fast wax melted, who could imagine it any use against fire?
Nothing left in the chest but a few books. She inspected the titles: all devotional. A Missal for the Use of the Laity; The Imitation of Christ. She plucked an ornamented rectangle about the size of a playing card out of the black Book of Psalms.
“Put it back where it lives,” said Anna, agitated.
Ah, could there be food hidden in the book? “Just a moment.” Lib riffled through the pages. Nothing but more little rectangles.
“Those are my holy cards. Each one has its own place.”
The one Lib held was a printed prayer with a fancy-cut border, like lace, and it had another of those tiny medals tied onto it with a ribbon. On the back, in saccharine pastels, a woman cuddled a sheep. Divine Bergère, it said at the top. Divine something?
“See, this one matches Psalm One Hundred and Eighteen: I have gone astray like a sheep that is lost,” Anna recited, tapping the page without needing to check what it said.
Very “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” Lib thought. She saw now that all the books in the chest were studded with these rectangles. “Who gave you these cards?”
“Some were prizes at school or at the mission. Or presents from visitors.”
“Where’s this mission?”
“It’s gone now. My brother left me some of the loveliest ones,” said Anna, kissing the sheep card before tucking it into its place and closing the book.
What a curious child. “Do you have a favourite saint?”
Anna shook her head. “They all have different things to teach us. Some of them were born good, but others were very wicked until God cleaned their hearts.”
“Oh yes?”
“He can pick anyone to be holy,” Anna assured her.
When the door burst open, Lib jumped.
Kitty, with the basin of hot water. “Sorry to keep you. I’m after bringing himself his meal,” the young woman said, panting.
Malachy O’Donnell, presumably. Off cutting turf for a neighbour, wasn’t he—as a favour? Lib wondered. Or a job of work to supplement the pittance the farm made? It struck her that perhaps only the men got food at midday here.
“What’ll I be scrubbing for you?” asked the slavey.
“I’ll do that,” Lib told her, taking the basin. She couldn’t allow any of the family access to this room. Kitty might have food for the child tucked in her apron right now, for all Lib knew.
The maid frowned; confusion or resentment?
“You must be busy,” said Lib. “Oh, and could I trouble you for another chair, as well as fresh bedding?”
“A sheet?” asked Kitty.
“A pair of them,” Lib corrected her, “and a clean blanket.”
“We’ve none,” said the maid, shaking her head.
Such a vacant expression on the broad face; Lib wondered if Kitty was quite all there.
“No clean sheets yet, she means,” Anna put in. “Wash day’s Monday next, unless ’tis too wet.”
“I see,” said Lib, suppressing her irritation. “Well, just the chair, then, Kitty.”
She added chlorinated soda from a bottle in her bag to the basin of water and wiped every surface; the smell was harsh, but clean. She made the child’s bed again, with the same tired sheets and grey blanket. Straightening up, she wondered where else a mouthful of food could possibly be stashed.
This was nothing like the cluttered sickrooms of the upper classes. Apart from the bed, dresser, and chair, there was only a woven mat on the floor, with a pattern of darker lines. Lib lifted it up; nothing underneath. The room would be very cheerless if she took the mat away, as well as chill underfoot. Besides, the most likely place to hide a crust or an apple was in the bed, and surely the committee didn’t mean to make the girl sleep on bare boards like a prisoner? No, Lib would just have to inspect the room at frequent and unpredictable intervals to make sure no food had been sneaked in.
Kitty brought in the chair at last, and thumped it down.
“You might take this mat and beat the dust out when you have a moment,” said Lib. “Tell me, where would I find a scales to weigh Anna?”
Kitty shook her head.
“In the village, perhaps?”
“We use fists,” said Kitty.
Lib frowned.
“Fistfuls of flour, like, and pinches of salt.” The slavey mimed them in the air.
“I don’t mean household scales,” Lib told her. “Something big enough to weigh a person, or an animal. Perhaps on one of the neighbouring farms?”
Kitty shrugged tiredly.
Anna, watching the curling dandelion, gave no sign of hearing any of this, as if it were some other girl’s weight that was in question.
Lib sighed. “A jug of cold water, please, then, and a teaspoon.”
“Did you want a bit of something?” Kitty asked on her way out.
The phrase confused Lib.
“Or can you wait for your dinner?”
“I can wait.”
Lib regretted her words the moment the maid was gone, because she was hungry. But somehow, in front of Anna, she couldn’t declare that she was desperate for food. Which was absurd, she reminded herself, since the girl was nothing but a shammer.
Anna was whispering her Dorothy prayer again. Lib did her best to ignore it. She’d put up with far more irksome habits before. There was that boy she’d nursed through scarlet fever who kept hawking up on the floor, and that demented old lady who’d been convinced her medicine was poison and had shoved it away, spilling it all down Lib.
The girl was singing under her breath now, hands folded on her finished needlework. Nothing furtive about this hymn; the Dorothy prayer was the only secret Anna seemed to be keeping. The high notes were a little cracked, but sweet.
Hark! the loud celestial hymn,
Angel choirs above are raising,
Cherubim and seraphim,
In unceasing chorus praising.
When Kitty brought in the jug of water, Lib said, “What’s this, may I ask?” Patting the flaking whitewash.
“A wall,” said Kitty.
A tiny giggle escaped from the child.
“I mean, of what is it made?” asked Lib.
The slavey’s face cleared. “Mud.”
“Just mud? Really?”
“’Tis stone at the base, anyways, for keeping the rats out.”
When Kitty was gone, Lib used the tiny bone spoon to taste the water in the jug. No hint of any flavour. “Are you thirsty, child?”
Anna shook her head.
“Hadn’t you better take a sip?”
Overstepping her mark; the habits of a nurse died hard. Lib reminded herself that it was nothing to her whether the little fraud drank or not.
But Anna opened her mouth for the spoon and swallowed without difficulty. “O forgive me, that I may be refreshed,” she murmured.
Talking not to Lib, of course, but to God.
“Another?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Wright.”