‘He is ill, gravely ill,’ Little Mouse said. ‘I fear he hasn’t long. He is dying – Father is dying.’

Olga gasped and crossed herself. ‘I will get my things,’ she said.

‘Please hurry,’ Little Mouse begged.

He helped her through the half-dark of the village with her baskets of blankets, herbs and medicines. Their shadows were stretched and warped by the humming street lights.

As they went, they prayed together. Prayers to attend the release of the soul.

A weak gas lamp flickered by the door of the priest’s grey-planked hut. Little Mouse pushed open the door.

‘Go to him,’ he urged. ‘Please, he needs your help.’

The woman went inside and Little Mouse followed, closing the door behind him.

The priest sat by a guttering coal fire. He looked up from a cup of black tea. His eyes shone, and he smiled as the woman hurried to him.

‘I knew you would come,’ he said. ‘You are such a good soul, Olga. Bless you. I knew I could depend upon you.’

The woman turned to Little Mouse with an expression of puzzlement. She opened her mouth to speak.

Little Mouse brought half a brick down hard on her head.