On Christmas morning, on their way back from church, they came across a cherub kneeling in a doorway.
She wore a halo of knobbly ice on her head and on her back a thin frost-rimed blanket had given her white folded wings. Her milky blue eyes were open and her lips were slightly parted as if she were about to start singing.
Beatrice’s father stood looking at her for a long moment, then he reached out and gently touched her shoulder.
‘Frozen solid,’ he said. ‘You carry on home, Bea. I’ll go back and fetch the verger.’
Beatrice hesitated, with the snow falling silently on to her bonnet and cape. She had seen dead children in the street before, but here in this alley that they had taken as a short cut home, this girl made her feel much sadder than most. It was Christmas Day, and the church bells were pealing, and she could hear people laughing and singing as they made their way along Giltspur Street, back to their homes and their firesides and their families.
Not only that, the girl was so pretty, although she was very pale and emaciated, and Beatrice could imagine what a happy life she might have had ahead of her.
‘Go on, Bea,’ her father told her. ‘There’s nothing more anybody can do for her now, except pray.’