The tenement’s gloom pressed close as Eleanor sat by the hearth, its embers a faint pulse against the night’s chill. Thornfield’s dust had carved her hollow—her cough a relentless claw, her strength a threadbare veil—and sixpence bought only crumbs, not warmth. Eldric’s cheeks sank deeper, his bird idle, and Margaret’s murmurs grew faint, Henry’s breath a shallow tide. Hunger gnawed them all, a beast she could not slay, and so she rose, her resolve a cold ember, and slipped James’s coat over her shoulders.

  She crept through Wolthrope’s alleys, the fog a shroud, to a bloodletter’s den—a dank hovel by the docks, its air thick with iron and gin. The man, grizzled and squinting, bared her arm, his needle a dull gleam. “A shilling a pint,” he grunted, and she nodded, her pulse a drumbeat as the steel bit. Blood flowed, dark and slow, into a tin cup, and she clenched her fist, willing it done—bread, broth, a flicker of life for her kin. Dizziness crept in, a gray tide, but she bit her lip, tasting salt, and thought of Eldric’s smile.

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  Homeward, she swayed, the shilling cold in her palm, James’s coat a weight she scarce bore. Eldric looked up, his eyes sharp despite his pallor. “What’s that, Mama?” he asked, pointing to the bandage peeking from her sleeve. “Just a prick,” she lied, brushing it off with a weak grin, and sank beside him, her head spinning. Margaret rocked, “Red flowers,” she mumbled, and Henry’s stare pierced the dark, unseeing. The candle guttered, its wax a mournful pool, and she hid her trembling hands.

  She’d sold her blood, a mother’s last coin, but it was no triumph—merely a pause, a drop against the deluge of want. Eldric nestled close, his warmth a fleeting balm, and she clutched the coat, its wool a silent plea. The mill had taken her breath; now she bled for them, and feared it would not be enough.