Clara stood alone at the gate, rain running down her face. In one hand she held a ruined lace cap; in the other, an old iron key. She held the key up to the faint gray light. On the little brass tag, scratched in tiny letters, were three words: *Drummond's Bank, London.*
It took Clara two days to reach London. She walked most of the first night through the rain until her feet were blistered and her shawl was soaked through. At dawn, a kind old carter driving a wagon of turnips took pity on her and let her ride in the back. She slept against the sacks, holding the iron key so tightly in her fist that it left a red mark on her palm.
On the second evening, she climbed the dark, narrow stairs of a crumbling boarding house in a poor street near the river. She knocked on a door at the very top.
A thin, weak voice called out, "Who is it?"
"It's me, Polly. It's Clara."
There was a little cry, then the door flew open, and a girl of fourteen threw her arms around Clara's neck.
Polly Hartley was small for her age and much too thin. Her face was pale, her cheeks too flushed, and her golden hair hung limp around her shoulders. When she hugged Clara, Clara could feel every bone in her back.
"You came," Polly whispered. "You came home." Then she pulled back, and her eyes went wide. "Clara, your hair... What happened to your beautiful hair?"
Clara made herself smile. "It was getting in the way, that's all."
Polly looked at her for a long moment. She was young, but she was not foolish; she had been through too much to be foolish. "Somebody did that to you," she said quietly.
Clara did not answer; she only held her little sister tight.
And then Polly began to cough: a deep, rattling, terrible cough that seemed to tear her small body apart. It went on and on. When it finally stopped, Polly was gasping for breath, and there was a spot of red on the handkerchief she held to her lips.
Clara's blood turned to ice. "How long?" she asked. "How long have you been coughing like this?"
"Only a few weeks," Polly whispered. "It's nothing, truly. It will pass."
But it was not nothing; Clara could see that it was not nothing.
The next morning, Clara put on her best dress—the cleaner of her two old ones. She tied a plain gray scarf over her head to hide her hair, put the iron key in her pocket, and walked across London to Drummond's Bank.
It was a grand building of white stone with tall pillars and a polished brass door. Gentlemen in fine coats and top hats went in and out. Clara stood on the pavement for a long time, her heart pounding, then lifted her chin and walked inside.