Eppie dallied beside a window making pretence of collecting bobbins from a buffalo hide skip. From her vantage point it was possible to see most of the garden on the river bank beside Bridge House. Rowan was breaking ice on a fishpond.

Appearing as from nowhere, the white robin crashed into the pane with a force that would have killed a living bird.

A carriage clattered into the yard. Hopping from the rear board, Duncan, the footman, pulled out a foldaway step. Robert du Quesne alighted.

The man was part of the past, a painful memory. Panicking, Eppie grabbed an armful of bobbins and instinctively made to flee. In her nervousness most tumbled around her feet.

*That's seven pence!' Crumpton yelled, seeing her scrabbling on the floor.

Despair swept through her. Afraid for the loss of Martha's savings, she retorted, *I've only dropped six. The Yellowing says it's a penny fine for each dropped bobbin.'

Though du Quesne had not caught Eppie's cry of consternation upon setting eyes on him, he had noticed a ragged child staring at him from a grimy window on the second floor. He marched towards her, brimming with fury. *So, Strawhead, you've crawled to my mill! I presume the rest of your odious family are here. Having trouble with her are you, Crumpton?'

*The girl is a dreamer,' the overseer said sneeringly. *Many are the times I have had to fine her for gawping out of windows.'

*Speaking from experience,' du Quesne said, *you will find this child more trouble than she is worth. Simply forfeiting her wage for a breach of the rules will not be enough to quell her wilful, impudent nature. What she needs is a regular dose of corporal punishment. In short, thrashing into order.'

Crumpton ripped out his strap.

Cowering, Eppie crossed her arms over her chest and held her breath in fear. Whistling cracks, like the stings of a thousand ferocious bees, lashed her body. Crash, slam, pounded the machines. Red, bulging were the eyes of the overseer as he struck time and again.

Distraught at the brutality of the overseer's attack, Mr Grimley made towards them. His insistent, booming voice broke through her cries. *Enough!'

That evening, Martha attempted to get the fire going to heat the potage so that the families would at least be warm on the inside.

The tinkers' fire blazed, their chicken stew bubbled.

*It's no use,' Eibhlin said. *The faggots are damp.'

Martha battled against her fighting nature. *It'll be well past midnight before we get it to kindle, if at all. We'll have to make do with bread and dripping again.'

Wakelin found no difficulty in keeping warm. Boiling inside, he stormed around the cellar, furious in the knowledge that du Quesne was the mill owner. *We'll have to leave, Ma. There's no way I'm having o't to do with du Quesne. We'll work to the end of the week, get our wage and go.'

*But you'll have made your mark?' Eibhlin said.

*How d'ya mean?' Wakelin asked.

*When you started. Crumpton doesn't make a thing of telling folk what they might not like to hear.'

He stepped close to her. *What ya saying?'

*Once you've cut your mark you're bound to work at the mill for ten years, except when trade's bad, then workers are laid off without pay.'

Wakelin turned on his mother. *Why didn't you ask what you were putting yer mark to?'

*I wasn't thinking,' she answered humbly, ashamed of her stupidity.

Wakelin longed to smash something. *Ten years! I can't do that. I won't do it!' Aware of the tinkers smirking, delighting in his misery, he growled like a rabid dog, booted the stew pot, and was gone.

Eppie knew he would not return that night.

Her head aching from eyestrain, Martha did her best to make the girls comfortable. She tucked Eppie in and rubbed rank lard over Lottie's skin to shut out the cold.

*We could break all the rules and get ourselves dismissed,' Eppie suggested.

*What work would we get around here that is any better?' Martha answered.

More than anything Eppie longed to sleep, to forget. The unbearable stinging in her limbs made slumber impossible. Eibhlin lay close by, her breathing laboured. Though Eppie tried to hold her nose against the offensive stench of the tinkers' full bucket, the muscles in her arm were too weak even to make this small effort. Unblinking, she stared into the darkness, listening to shouts in the streets.

Time ground on, slowly.

Growing weary, longing for sleep to carry her away, she yearned to exist no longer.

Soon enough the tolling of the mill bell sliced through the hoary air.

After her beating, Eppie's body felt like a scab that, with each bend, as she was compelled to crawl beneath the mules to retrieve a bobbin or brush the fly, cracked open and bled afresh.

The stone, which she was forced to wear around her neck for a second time, slowed her reactions. On several occasions she was almost caught by the moving parts. Trembling, lying flat against the floor, she sensed the threatening mass of hissing machinery pass over her head like a dragon creeping out of its lair, seeking its next victim.

So consumed was she by her worries that she gave not a thought to Wakelin until he lurched in, drunk. He had been content in the company of Ezra and Tobias and always looked forward to hunting with Fur. But now, consumed by the knowledge that he was working for a man he hated, how could he live? He felt as powerless as the creatures he trapped. Drowning in drink always was his means of escape.

If Wakelin had hoped Crumpton would not notice him sneaking in, he was mistaken.

*What do you mean by coming in at this time?' the overseer bellowed. *You're twenty minutes late.'

*I've come in, s'all ya need ta know.'

*Dock quarter of a day's wage,' the overseer informed the clerk. *Dunham.'

Eppie pondered frantically, *The loss of four hours' pay for having arrived only a few minutes late. Oh, Wakelin!'

He had been making an effort, dutifully handing a shilling a week to Martha. However, with the family's fines increasing, their savings were rapidly dwindling.

Martha rushed Lottie into the cellar that night. The child's face was ashen and as shiny as a tallow candle.

*Whatever is the matter?' Eibhlin cried. *She looks half dead.'

*It's a wonder she isn't dead. Now I know why she's been looking so lost, without the energy to eat. Grandmother Mobsby's been dosing the children with heart's-ease to keep them quiet. And poor Becky, Ezra's youngest, died this morning. Grandmother Mobsby never even had the gumption to send word to Jenufer at the mill.'

*What are you going to do with Lottie?' Eibhlin asked the following morning.

*I've no idea,' Martha agonised. *I've been awake all night, worrying.'

*We'll take her with us,' Eppie said.

*We can't,' Martha answered. *It's against the rules.'

*Rules!' Eppie said hotly. *I am sick of rules. It's stupid that children are beaten because of rules. Rules that say we mustn't talk or look out of the windows. Rules that say I have to carry that horrid stone around my neck. Rules that workers mustn't sing or whistle - not that anyone feels happy enough to do that anyway.'

Taking no heed of her pains, she swept Lottie into her arms. The child's hands felt icy to her touch.

Martha plodded up the street alongside Eppie. *I don't think this is a good idea.'

*Lottie is ill. I am not leaving her.'

Crumpton's gyrating mouth ceased its habitual whirling as he watched Eppie cross the yard. *Oy! Where do you think you're going with that?'

*Lottie is a little girl, not a that!'

Eppie knew she had uttered dangerous words because the overseer reached for his strap.

Mr Grimley glanced up from his desk, startled, as she burst into the office.

Sat on his long-legged chair, Longbotham was copying details of fines into the book of misdemeanours.

*Some trouble?' the manager enquired.

*The little ones need somewhere safe to go in the day. Becky Shaw died yesterday. She was only two. Granny Mobsby has over twenty children to take care of. She can't watch them all the time. Outside her house there's that ditch what flows down Scalding Lane. It's full of hot water tipped in from the soap-boiler's place. A boy tripped into it and got roasted. Another child pottered away and got crushed beneath cartwheels, and a three-year-old girl drowned in a horse trough. What if a child fell into Granny Mobsby's fire? That's if she's luckier than us and able to get one going in the first place.'

Having been used to the enforced silence of the workers, the mill manager was taken aback by her torrent of words. *Is that what happened to you, your face? A fire?'

She stared forlornly at the brown stripes on his canary yellow waistcoat, remembering the time when Twiss had been killed.

*You are a good Christian girl. I see you regularly at chapel. You have a strong faith?'

She looked deeply into his sad eyes. *Yes, Mr Grimley. I believe that God is in every living thing: each bird, tree, and flower. I can feel God's energy all around me. It is in the air, the earth, and in the water.' She pulled a face of stiff repugnance. *Though, I don't suppose God would like swimming in that foul river by our cellar.'

*Hmm, quite. You and your brother have got yourselves noticed in the short time you have worked here.'

*Wakelin only got pilking-drunk yesterday because he found out that Lord du Quesne was the mill owner.'

*Why would your brother have feelings of animosity towards his lordship?'

*When we lived in Little Lubbock, Lord du Quesne wanted to hang Wakelin.'

*Whatever for?'

*Thurstan accused Wakelin of being a rowdy revolutionary. Gabriel was real good when I went to ask him for his help. He tried to tell his father that Wakelin didn't mean no harm. When his pa wouldn't listen, Gabriel stuck the noose around his own neck and told him that, if he wanted to hang Wakelin, he had to hang him first.'

*Gabriel did that? And you are much acquainted with Gabriel?'

*In the Crusader Oak he taught me to play the flute. That's when he wasn't learning me my letters or we weren't sossing about in the woods.'

*Forgive me for asking. Why would Gabriel du Quesne choose to associate with the likes of you?'

*Talia led him to me.'

*His deceased sister?' He looked at Eppie askance, weighing up the possibility that there might be a touch of lunacy about her. He deemed it best to change the line of conversation. *Why did your family come to Malstowe?'

*Partly because Wakelin refused to be muck-man and partly because Lord du Quesne doesn't like me. When he shot my pa dead in the graveyard I shouted at him that if he came back to life after he'd died he'd be a grizzly wild boar, like his head in the Brown Room. Dawkin told his lordship that he already was one.'

*Well, well, there is a lot about you that intrigues me. I am sorry you were beaten by Crumpton. Too much of that goes on. I rue the day that I was compelled to sell out to Lord du Quesne, but the circumstances were beyond me. He does not have a care about the workers. There are too many hazards, especially for the children when they are tired towards the end of a long day. If his lordship forces them to work from such a young age and for such long hours is it any wonder that they fall asleep. It is utter nonsense to beat them for that reason.' He swung his leather chair around and rose to his feet. *You are right; we must do something to help the very young. I have a notion. Follow me.'

It was still dark as they strode past the truck store and up the hill, passing the weaving shed and woollen mill.

Stepping solemnly behind the manager, Lottie in her arms, Eppie trailed him through the kitchen of the apprentice house and upstairs to the dormitory, where rows of truckle-like beds were laid side-by-side with scarce a space between. Covering each of the straw mattresses, where the children slept two to a bed, were grey blankets. Besides a line of chamber pots were little heaps of straw, ready to use to clean bottoms.

*Mrs Muggleton,' Mr Grimley said, indicating to Lottie, *this child is unwell. She needs taking care of. I have decided that the mill workers, if they so desire, will be offered the opportunity of leaving their under-fives here during working hours. The children will be safe in the apprentice house and may make use of the beds if they are tired. There will be no charge. I shall buy provisions: milk, bread, that sort of thing.'

*I thought you sold the mill to Lord du Quesne because you was poor?' Eppie said. *Where will you get the money?'

*I shall manage,' he ruminated. *One way or, perhaps, the other.'

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR.

THE HAUNTED WATERWHEEL.

Merrily the Christmas bells of Little Lubbock church chimed. Eppie whipped across the frozen mere, sheep bone blades strapped to her feet. *Watch me, Dawkin! I can skate!' Overwhelmed with a sense of freedom, she whirled until she felt she would never stop.

Martha grabbed her flailing arms. *Eppie, wake up!'

Dawkin's laughter died.

*Mam? What's up?'

*Can't you hear the mill bell? Hurry or we'll be late. Eibhlin, you're surely not thinking of going today? You spent the whole night awake, coughing. Take the day off.'

*If I do, that's the last I see of the mill and my children will starve.'

Tramp, tramp went the tread of many feet across the desolate marketplace as workers marched through the shrouding cloak of darkness.

With a heavy heart, Eppie set about the task of joining broken threads.

It seemed an eternity until the end of the day.

On and on they worked. Wheels clattered. Straps and spindles hummed.

Abruptly, Eibhlin fell.

Coline dashed to her mother, terrified she would die before her eyes.

*Back to piecing!' Crumpton roared. *Longbotham, fine Mrs O'Ruarc six pence for lying down.'