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Molly had a chicken roasting in the oven, surrounded by potatoes so they could soak up the delicious drippings. It was dark early, of course, though the temperature was still not as punishing as it had been. But cold enough, and dark enough, to make her worries feel harder to bear.
She had never thought of herself as a worrier, not really, but that particular December, the list felt endless. The Valette girls, stoically making their way after their mother’s tragic suicide. The brave troublemaker Malcolm Barstow, who was trying to look out for his family any way he could. The thought of these children and what they had to bear—well, Molly understood perfectly well that the world was full of strife and always had been. Only sometimes that was easier to bear than others.
She looked out
