The morning broke cold over Wolthrope, its sky a shroud of ash as Eleanor trudged through the streets, her cough a grating echo in her chest. The stolen loaf had dwindled to crumbs, its fleeting solace gone, and Eldric’s pallor sharpened, his bird song faint. She’d lost Thornfield, lost her blood’s shilling—now she sought the pawnbroker, a last thread of salvation. James’s coat hung heavy in her arms, its wool patched and frayed, a relic of love she could no longer afford to keep.

  The shop squatted by the quay, its windows dulled with grime, the air thick with tobacco and despair. She stepped inside, the bell clanging mournfully, and faced the man—stooped, hawk-eyed, his fingers stained with ink. “This,” she said, unfolding the coat, its scarlet faded to a ghost of James’s pride. “It’s all I have. Give me work—mending, anything.” Her voice trembled, a plea stripped bare, but he sneered, tracing the torn seams. “Worth a penny, maybe. No jobs here, woman—take your rags and go.”

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  She clutched the coat, her knees quaking. “My son starves,” she whispered, tears brimming, “my parents fade—please.” His laugh was a bark, harsh as the wind rattling the panes, and he waved her off, turning to his ledger. She stumbled out, the river’s dank breath on her face, and sank against the wall, the coat a shroud in her lap. James’s memory, bartered for naught—her shame burned deeper than hunger.

  Home, Eldric waited, his frail hands clutching the bird. “Mama,” he said, and she cradled him, his warmth a knife in her breast. “We’ll be fine,” she murmured, a hollow vow, her lips pressed to his brow. Margaret rocked, silent now, and Henry’s stare pierced the dark, unseeing. The candle guttered, its flame a frail mockery, and she felt the plea’s failure crush her—Wolthrope offered no mercy, and she was a beggar at its gate, her family slipping through her trembling hands.