The dawn crept into Wolthrope, a pall of frost and soot as Eleanor rose from the hearth, her cough a jagged hymn to her ruin. The last supper’s crumbs were gone, Eldric’s cheeks hollower still, and Margaret’s murmurs had stilled to a faint breath, Henry’s stare fixed on nothing. Hunger gnawed them raw, and she felt its teeth in her own bones—Thornfield’s dust, her blood’s loss, had left her a husk, yet she could not yield. She donned James’s coat, its wool a frail armor, and slipped out, seeking the bloodletter once more.

  The alley reeked of brine and rot, the hovel’s door sagging as she entered, her steps a falter. The man squinted, his needle glinting in the dim. “Back again?” he growled, and she bared her arm, its veins faint beneath bruised skin. “Another shilling,” she rasped, her voice a plea, but he shook his head, jabbing the steel. Blood trickled, too slow, too thin—she swayed, the room tilting, and he cursed, “You’re spent, woman.” She clutched the wall, dizziness a tide, and staggered out, empty-handed, her stand a failure.

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  Homeward, she leaned on the coat, its weight her only prop, the river’s chill biting her face. Eldric waited, his bird clutched tight, his eyes sharp with worry. “Mama,” he whispered, and she sank beside him, her breath a gasp. “I’ll always fight for you,” she said, her voice cracking, and held him close, his frail warmth a dagger in her chest. Margaret rocked silently, Henry’s wheeze a mournful tide, and the candle’s stub flickered, its wax a mournful pool.

  She’d bled for them, stolen for them, yet stood now on the precipice—nothing left to give, her body a traitor. Wolthrope’s mills droned beyond the panes, a cruel chorus, and she pressed her face to Eldric’s hair, tasting her tears. This desperate stand, her last defiance, had crumbled, and she felt the end rush nearer, a shadow she could no longer outrun.