Trigger Warning: I regret to say that this chapter contains violence, assault and implied sexual assault.

I have tried very hard to not make my depictions of events in any way gratuitous. I hated to write them; but I include them here, once only, in order to be faithful to a certain narrative I had embarked upon and to be true to my own version of a beloved character and her experiences, and my own (just as beloved!) original character. I do not believe such experiences are in any way unique to this story, but endemic to vulnerable young people at the time, as evidenced in so many of the published accounts, both fictional and otherwise.

I am so grateful for the support and encouragement shown here to me personally and to this story, which as you may imagine is not going to wind up any time soon! I acknowledge, as ever, the tremendous fellow writers and readers of this wonderful community, all the thrilling faves and follows, and want here to thank each and every one of the fabulous guests who have responded to this, since I cannot do so individually.


Chapter Nine

The Follies of My Youth

Hopetown Asylum, Nova Scotia

June 1876


It was Inspection Day.

At least, that's what the children called it. Officially it was Visiting Day, when members of the public were treated to the entertaining spectacle of waifs young and old performing for their viewing pleasure. It was such a curious thing, an orphanage; part charity endeavour, part sideshow exhibit, wherein the children were on display like baked goods on a shelf; some fresh and tempting, others crusty and old, unfortunately past their best.

The few families filed in to find the children in the dormitory about their lessons, or engaged in games such as jacks or elastics; the actual toys kept new for such occasions, to disappear again when the visitors did. There would be cups of tea offered around – Martha, Mrs Cadbury's help, was quite rushed off her feet – in order to encourage a convivial atmosphere; as if the young couples with their look of defeated disappointment, or the older couples, already stooped and greying, as if having to bypass parenthood had aged them into grandparents already, were there to pay an overdue social call, and not actually to contemplate choosing a child.

Anne and Tom had been tasked with supervising the youngsters, according to their respective skills; Anne was reading to some of the littlest, straining to engage them so that they would not cry or wander off; Tom had some of the more boisterous boys in the tamest game of pirate's treasure he could manage. Mrs Cadbury weaved in and out, greeting visitors with the widest smile her thin, tight lips could muster; it was the closest she would ever come to being a society hostess, as evidenced by the sight of her in her best skirt and blouse, with the little cameo brooch at her throat, and the additional hint of color in her cheeks, which was not altogether naturally acquired.

One lady, still young and moderately pretty, holding fast to the hand of a girl who resembled her in looks and a rather fine bone structure, seemed to linger longer than the rest; her eyes darted about the room a little wildly, as if trying to remember what she had been searching for; the girl stared at everyone she passed with a fascinated wonder, as if this was the very first time she had ever seen children in her life.

"What do you think, darling?" the lady bent to murmur to her, her tone registering both her impatience and discomfort. "You know our ferry leaves in a few hours."

The girl, perhaps a year or two younger than Anne, focussed her attention more carefully, as seen in the furrowing of a clear, high minded brow; she seemed to have been entrusted with an important mission, and took her orders seriously. Her gaze passed over the boys with Tom in the corner completely; it swept over the girl with the truly awful hair reading to a motley assortment of slightly snivelling youngsters; it came to rest on those stationed at a table, to a young girl coloring patiently, oblivious to the momentous decision being made on her behalf.

The girl pointed a long, slender finger at the beautiful younger girl with the rippling nut brown hair.

"Her. I want her, Mama," it was announced, in the way an indulged child might choose a new toy.

Mrs Cadbury had been hovering hopefully in the background. All other visitors seemed to have departed. Now she stepped forward, her hands clasped, her most benevolent smile in place. There had not been any children going in so long, only arrivals, almost every month; an endless steady stream, with nothing with which to feed them and nowhere to put them, till they grew, as children must. Then they exited through the doors from whence they came, into the indifferent embrace of the town, their measly possessions easily carried in one hand, their pinched, pale faces still bearing, despite everything, the tiny light of hope, which was extinguished, soon enough.

But this … this would be excellent news to tell the Inspector next week.

"Lily, my child," Mrs Cadbury marched over to her. "Come and meet a very nice lady and her lovely daughter. Her name is Mrs Spencer."


The paperwork did not take long. Mrs Cadbury always found this part a disconcertingly uneasy business, and slightly unpleasant, as if she was a market trader consigning sacks of potatoes to be shipped off to parts unknown.

She was most relieved in this Mrs Spencer, however; Lily was a sweet, biddable child, and a favourite, if she was said to have had any, and it would have tugged at even Mrs Cadbury's cool heart to have signed her over to some stern, severe matriarch.

"So I will return in a fortnight," Mrs Spencer now motioned, her countenance having brightened considerably knowing her visit had been so successful. And then her own clear brow darkened.

"Oh my goodness! It went out of my mind completely! We will be needing another child. Eleven or twelve, no older. For a mature couple on the Island – a brother and sister. They are quiet and most respectable. They need someone they could train up. Someone bright and obliging who'd work hard."

Mrs Cadbury was stunned at this news. It could hardly be possible. Two children at the same time, and an older one at that?

"Would that be for another girl, too?" Mrs Cadbury queried quietly, a little dazed. At this rate she should start attempting to claim a commission.

Mrs Spencer was distracted by her own sweet Violet, stroking the young girl's hair, like the pretty doll she appeared. Side by side they even had a similar look about them, and could you even account for the symmetry of their names? It was positively providential.

"Mmm…" she therefore made answer, noncommittally.

"Wonderful!" Mrs Cadbury was so flabbergasted she almost clapped her hands together, forgetting herself entirely.

"Would you have someone suitable?" Mrs Spencer was eager now to be off; they might have time for a spot of lunch before the ferry. "I'll take them with me when I come for our Lily," she looked back to beam at the delicate little beauty behind her.

"I have the perfect child in mind," Mrs Cadbury smiled back at her, almost warmly.


Tom trudged in after an especially long afternoon. They'd had to have extra firewood today on account of the visitors, and even though it was now June the asylum was so relentlessly cold and draft-ridden, still – as if the old building permitted no warmth to permeate it, human or otherwise – that he'd had to see to all the fires all over again ready for the morning.

He found Anne by their window, in the farthest corner of the dormitory, which had finally quietened down after the disruption of the day. She was balanced with cat-like grace on the windowsill, almost as slight herself as the rotting wood she rested upon, and she stared through the glass down at the spindly trees she always claimed she felt so sorry for.

When she turned to him she had been crying, and he was so distraught by this that he jogged the rest of the way towards her, alarmed that she may have been harmed in some way in his absence.

"Anne?" he said urgently. "Are you all right?"

She opened her mouth but no sound came out. She attempted again.

"They have a family for me," she explained, and her mournful tone made it impossible to know if she greeted the idea with happiness or sorrow.


"Well, I'll just have to come to you in this Avan Lee place," Tom determined jokingly a few days later.

She regarded him sadly. "Tom, it's somewhere on Prince Edward Island. It's across the ocean. I don't even know how far away it is. I can't find a map anywhere."

"Then I'll stow away on a boat," his expression indicated this idea held a certain appeal. "I'll sail around for a couple of years and make my fortune, and then I'll come find you."

"I guess you are awfully good at pirate's treasure," she attempted a little humour herself, but her heart felt hollow with it.

He smiled in return, his blue eyes softening. "I'm real pleased for you, Anne."

She turned away from him quickly, the ready tears forming. "I don't even know if I want to go anymore."

"Well, now you're just being crazy. You'll have what you've always wanted – a home and a family. You deserve it."

This time it was he who reached out his large, calloused hand in comfort to her. He grasped her small one firmly, unashamedly. He waited quite a while, in his patient, undemanding way, till she was ready to turn back to him.

"Take your chance, Anne," he told her.


Anne was slowly reconciling herself to the move. Every day she would spend a few quiet moments with the different children – those she had a special bond with and even those she didn't – taking time to pass on some kindness and comfort. After all, he had no doubt she was telling them, if red haired, thin, hopelessly freckled and outrageously imaginative Anne Shirley could find a family, anyone could.

Tom watched her and his own resolutions hardened his heart and stiffened his resolve. He would not be staying when she was gone. He had a fair knowledge of the layout of the town – hadn't he roamed everywhere when his mother was alive? – and knew vaguely where the docks were. He would walk out down the street to chop his firewood for the neighbouring houses, and just keep walking. He would lie, bribe, cheat or steal his way across the water.

Now, though, the two wooden figures burned a hole in his pocket. He had been steadily – and surreptitiously – working on them for months. The result was more careful and precise than anything he had done in his life, and he was quietly proud. With the Inspector coming tomorrow, he was losing time to give them to her.

He made a bunker in their little corner of the dormitory and beckoned her over. She had a particular, determined set to her chin which he knew meant a lecture.

"Now Tom," she began, disconcertingly schoolmarmish, "I haven't even started in on you yet about keeping up with your lessons when I'm… when… well, after."

He gave an aggrieved sigh. "Yes, Miss Shirley," he decided not to argue the point with her today.

She sat down next to him. "Please, Tom. I mean it. I have found the fourth reader that was missing. You must have it. It will guide you to the place you need to aim for."

She would be the place he would need to aim for.

"You're so very smart, Tom," she grasped his own hand, unwilling to be swayed, her emotions getting the better of her, making her words powerful and passionate. She placed his hand held in hers to her heart for added emphasis.

"Say you'll do your very best, make the most of anything that comes your way, that you'll be the man I know you can be!" she all but cried. "Promise me, Tom!"

Her eyes were wide and the green sparked in them. Her skin up close was flushed and almost feverish. Her lips were parted and were pink and soft. His hand was on her chest. His own eyes widened to saucers. He didn't know anything about being a man, but he was nearly thirteen.

"OK, OK!" he laughed shakily, and his reaction broke the tension, enabling him to reclaim his hand and perhaps his sanity. "I promise you, Anne! Absolutely, I promise you!"

To be the man I know you can be. Yes, he could promise her that, at least.

She must have registered something in his expression, for she recovered herself, chuckling ruefully.

"For a moment there I thought you were going to make us take a blood vow or something!" he tried to grin.

He had been joking, of course, but she looked to him, eyes alight.

"Tom! What a marvellously inspired idea!"

"No, Anne, it really isn't!" he rolled his eyes.

He wasn't sure if she knew how much the little cuts could hurt, especially if they were deep enough. He had nicked himself plenty of times and knew the dull throb that could last for days, and how tender to touch the spot was after. And there always seemed to the tiny, fine fissure of a scar.

"Anne, never mind that now," he shifted awkwardly. "I want to give you something."

He reached into his pocket, withdrawing his precious package. He'd had nothing to wrap it in so had torn off a greying corner of his bedsheet.

He offered it to her without words, just his eyes and his newly self conscious smile and the breath that caught in his throat.

Anne unwrapped it with truly shaking hands. She didn't know if she had actually ever received a gift before in her life . She withdrew the two wooden figures, each around two inches high, though one was considerably taller – and lankier – than the other. The detail was fine and delicate, so much so that she could instantly recognise their identities – one figure, long hair in two braids, a hand holding a half opened book; the other, with messy, unruly short hair, holding a little sword aloft.

Anne stared at them a long moment. She touched them carefully, tracing the grooves, reading the detail of them in her fingers, as if braille. She looked up at him, the tears running unchecked down her face.

"They are so beautiful…" she sobbed. "Thank you so much, Tom."

He nodded and smiled, not trusting himself with a reply.

Anne dashed at her tears with her sleeve. "But I have nothing to give you!"

He gave her an affronted look to silence her.

"What if… what if you were to keep one of them? Then we would both have a part of them, as it were."

"No, Anne," he shook his head vehemently, finding his voice. "They're a pair. They belong together."

Like we do.

The words were unsaid, but they hovered in the air between them, silently reverberating, all the same.


The Inspector's call began ordinarily; the furious cleaning; the effusive, fawning greeting; the tiresome tour of the building. Mrs Cadbury was a good deal less flustered than on last occasion, and felt mildly virtuous at sharing the news of their two new adoptees; to be able to permanently wave off Anne Shirley, the girl whom she thought she would be saddled with forever, she would claim as a personal vindication of the last fifteen years of her life there in Hopetown.

She was thus less annoyed than she could have been when Martha began complaining extravagantly of a stomach ache the likes of which had never been felt by man, woman or child; in all honestly the girl was so slow and awkward these days, drifting along without the slightest idea troubling her passably pretty head; she wondered at what real use she actually was, if she continued to beg off her duties whenever anyone deigned to visit.

"Well, Anne, you'd best get yourself washed up for tea with the Inspector," she announced to the girl who was down to her last days with them. Goodness only knew what her new family would think of her and her rather uneven set of accomplishments, but Mrs Cadbury was determined that at the very least she would be able to brew a decent cup of tea.

Anne went to collect a clean apron from Martha; she couldn't say she felt any great kinship with her, and found her rather trying to talk to at the best of times, but today Anne was fairly disturbed to see her so pale and quivering, and offered her own bed if the older girl needed somewhere to lie and rest for a while.

For her pains all Anne received was a look of such quiet, dumbstruck misery that she rolled her eyes inwardly in despair of her.

Upstairs Anne entered with her tray; the Inspector was already seated, and didn't have cause to remember the ordinary looking girl before him at all but for her hair, and a certain unidentifiable insolence in her manner which had rather annoyed him.

He listened to the woman prattle on but he was really watching the girl.

The Inspector's eye swept over the lavish spread in front of him, more bountiful and generous than anything the asylum's actual residents could ever hope for.

"My dear Mrs Cadbury," he interrupted her mid stream. "I think we've forgotten the ginger snaps!"

"Sir?" Mrs Cadbury looked blankly, and he tried not to let his mouth twitch at his own joke.

Mrs Cadbury looked down at the tray and the little platters laden with any number and variety of biscuits. Anne looked down at the tray and tried not to salivate. The Inspector looked down at the tray and then up to Mrs Cadbury expectantly.

"I am positive I've had delightful ginger snaps here before," he claimed.

Mrs Cadbury sprang into action. "Anne! Would you go down to Cook immediately and see if – "

"No, no…" he waved a casual, dismissive hand. "Let the girl stay here and pour us another cup. If you would be so good as to search them out, Mrs Cadbury?"


Mrs Cadbury bustled into the kitchen, going immediately to the tins lined up in Cook's larder, admonishing Cook as she went.

"Ginger snaps!" Mrs Cadbury was saying, clearly exasperated. "How could you have forgotten them?"

"I don't know what you mean, Ma'am," Cook frowned. "I can't say as I've ever made ginger snaps for the Inspector!"

Martha's blotchy, pale face turned white as the apron she had given over to the girl upstairs. She had been shelling peas for her sins, and they tumbled out of the bowl she upended as she slid off the stool on which she had been perched. She looked to the two fussing women, and then around her; her frightened gaze found Tom, having entered to see to the fire. She went over to him as he bent to rake the ashes; already she was starting to whimper.

"Tom…" she whispered. She liked the steady, kind, quiet boy, even if he was a few years younger.

"Hey there, Martha," he replied, not looking up at her.

"Don't!" the shaking girl began to sob. Her tone drew his eyes to her.

"Martha?" he stood, puzzled.

"Don't let her alone with him!" Martha was pleading, and her look and voice were turning hysterical.

"Who?"

"The Inspector!" she wailed, loudly enough to attract the attention of both the older women. "He's a … a very… bad … man!"

Tom's fair face turned ashen.

As the two ladies stared, and Martha collapsed into tears, Tom had already bolted out of the room.


The stairs took forever. Tom didn't think he could breathe for fear. He was still a boy but he already knew too much about the appetites of men. He had already seen more than he ever wanted to see in the back alleys and dimly lit corners of the town.

When he was older, he would even reflect on the circumstances by which the pretty girl from the modest but respectable home had ever come to marry a drunken wastrel like his father, who would only abandon them anyway, to increasingly desperate years of neglect and poverty and disease.

But for now, he could only think of pushing himself faster, climbing higher, till he was almost there, close enough to hear the shrill, piercing cry, and the unmistakable sound of something breaking.

"Let go of me!"

He fell through the half closed door, in time enough to see the Inspector clutching his head, roaring like a bear, looming large over Anne who was shrunk, little and terrified, against the wall. The remains of a fine china tea service were splintered about them on the floor. The Inspector straightened and in one swift, mesmerizingly fluid motion, he struck Anne soundly across the face.

Tom charged.

It was a scramble of images after that; of Anne screaming as he grappled ineffectually with the Inspector; of Mrs Cadbury and Cook coming in, cowering and confused at the shocking sights before them; of the Inspector grabbing Tom by the throat with one hand, and a poker from the fireplace with the other, and dragging him out onto the landing, whereby he started to beat any part of his body he could reach with the long iron rod.

"Am I to be so attacked by these two animals?" he bellowed, obviously not one for irony, his sallow face red with his fury and the unaccustomed effort of his physical exertions. "It will not be borne!"

"Mr Flagstaff – please!" Mrs Cadbury begged, wringing her hands.

The Inspector's dead black eyes met a pair of truly shocked grey ones.

"A temper is a despicable thing in a girl!" he spat, specifically for her, getting in one or two more vicious blows to Tom before he saw Matron coming up the stairs, birch rod in hand in either her own readiness for attack or defence, one would never know, and his lip curled at the sight of her.

He threw down the poker in disgust. It clattered on the floor.

"When I next return here," he panted, though his low tone was chilling, "these vermin will not be."

He straightened his coat and staggered back down the stairs.


Later, that night, Mrs Cadbury sat amongst the broken remains of the tea service with the little rose leaf pattern, which her own mother had gifted her for the dowry that no gentleman caller had ever had reason or desire to collect.

The woman was a maid herself in all but name; her title was a courtesy given to those in her position of a certain age and a certain standing; conferring respectability if not gentility; if she'd ever had money she could have been the rich maiden aunt everyone tried to cultivate for an inheritance, or the severe spinster whose riches forgave all her wilful eccentricities. Instead she was … here.

She was here, as closeted as any of the children, but obviously – and shamefully – a great deal more naïve. Her fledgling vanity had been the vehicle by which she had been made a fool and the children in her care had been made prey. She accepted, now, the shattered tea service, the splintered shards already crunching underfoot, with all the broken innocence it so clearly and painfully symbolised, as her penance.

It took her all night to find and rid herself of every piece of it that remained.


Much, much later, Anne and Tom remade their little bunker for themselves, reinforced this time with their own thin blankets and hard pillows, and with the surprising addition of a few extra besides, offered with silent sympathy by Matron – perhaps her only ever known kindness.

Tom's age could be counted by the number of raised red welts across his aching body; Anne was made grotesque by the way one side of her face had swollen up completely, her cheek already an angry purple expanse stretching to greet the protruding puffiness of one eye.

They shut out the world; they turned to each other.

"I'm so, so sorry, Tom…" Anne cried against his shoulder. "It was my fault! I angered him so."

"It was not your fault, Anne!" Tom's reply was defiant, but so hoarse he could hardly be heard; the Inspector's grip on his throat had squeezed at his vocal cords.

"But my temper…" she remembered his last look to her, and his words, wondering if they, above everything else, would ever leave her.

"Your temper saved you."

"You saved me," she insisted loyally.

He really didn't want to think on it; it made him shudder, and any movement, even involuntary, was agony.

Tom didn't know how to even say it; he had no idea how much she knew. He hardly knew but of the most basic idea of it himself.

"Anne… it was bad. It was awful. But… it could have been very, very bad. It could have been…" he tried to swallow, "so much worse."

She turned to him. She put the gentlest hand on one of the red welts peeking out from the collar of his shirt.

"And this isn't very, very bad? The very worst?" her eyes sparked at that, even the puffy one.

He held firm. "That's not what I mean."

Anne lowered her eyes and looked away. Something in her did understand. Something in her had registered the way the Inspector had looked at her. The way he had lunged at her as if he had been himself like some sort of animal.

"He… he kissed me…" she whispered now, her whole being revulsed at the memory, of him pressed up against her, of his hands digging in to grip and subdue her, of his stinking, hot breath.

She huddled into herself, as if to ward off his attack on her, as if to make herself into a ball. She put her hands over her face.

"Oh, Tom…" she began to sob. "It was… my first kiss."

She wept, then, the sound of it so pitiful he thought his heart might break with it.

She understood enough.

He held her as much as he could manage, and they cried together, lit by the light of a dull moon through the window as lone witness.

"Don't worry…" he now crooned to her, barely able to get the words out, his voice raw. "Don't remember it. It doesn't matter. It didn't count."

As they exhausted themselves, she turned, and her swollen, bloody lips slowly met with the gash on his forehead. Their blood and fear and pain and sorrow intermingled, merged together with the memory.

It was in every way their blood vow.


Anne's last morning at the asylum began as any other; waking at the regulated hour; tucking in her bed; shovelling down what was to appropriate breakfast. She smiled over at Lily; the little girl so still and self contained you would think she was awaiting a new bible reading from Mrs Cadbury on a Sunday, and not a new family… a mother (and presumably a father). A sister. A proper school. Friends.

Friends. Anne's throat closed around the word.

Her hand went to check her face, prodding gently. It was still so tender, and the slightest pressure against it could still make her gasp. It was now an ugly rainbow that included additions of green and a tinge of yellow; she had to have her hair down over it, and she had her story in place for the inevitable questions that would come later.

Tom still moved stiffly and with effort, pausing intermittently to clutch his back or some other part of him; as if the pain had broken through his rather resilient defences to stab at him anew. There didn't seem to be any permanent damage; he had known inherently to protect both his head and his hands; only his forehead, above his brow, betrayed any exterior hint of the struggle he'd survived, when the Inspector had caught him a first glancing blow.

Martha was at her mother's for a week, given special leave to do so; when she returned she would be specifically trained in the kitchen, to gain skills far more useful than that of a mere maid, and far less likely to ever place her in the position of being alone with anyone, again, much less a man such as the Inspector.

Anne's worn carpet bag stood sentinel by her bed; it had travelled with her all these years, and would do so again, hopefully for the last time in a very, very long while. Its' cargo was depressingly light but that made it no easier to carry for it; the handles were troublesome, and she seemed to be the one person who could manage it, as if it were a dog that only recognised when she alone called its name.

Anne was shot through with nerves; as the time dragged on she could barely stand it. He had avoided her all morning, putting off the inevitable. She was beginning to be afraid she would not have her last moments with him.

He appeared in the doorway, at last.


They leaned against their windowsill, naturally. And then she leaned into him.

"Promise you'll write to me, Tom," she whispered.

"Of course. I promise," he croaked.

"It's just that I'll always be there. But it will be harder for me to find you."

"Well, naturally. I'll be sailing the seven seas, remember?"

She tried to smile. Really, she tried. She took his hand.

"Don't forget me, Tom Caruthers," she urged, the tears hot down her face, and she didn't care who saw them.

"Not likely, Anne Shirley," his voice was gruff, and he didn't care who saw the glimmer of his own tears, either.

There was a commotion downstairs; of the knocking of the brass handle on the big front door; of a visitor arriving.

Mrs Spencer was here.


Mrs Cadbury had prepared a pretty little speech of welcome, in her opinion, but it died on her lips at the agitated state of the breathless woman dragging her equally breathless daughter behind her.

"The ferry was late!" she bleated. Wouldn't you know it? There were no cabs to be found anywhere! We'll hardly get back in time as it is!"

"Please don't worry, Mrs Spencer, we'll have you on your way in no time. It doesn't do for the children to have a long, emotional farewell at any rate."

Mrs Spencer looked as if she sincerely distrusted long, emotional farewells at the best of times.

"Very well, we shall wait for them both here in the foyer. I trust they're ready?"

"Yes, indeed."

Mrs Cadbury motioned for her charges one final time. She gave Lily, whom she believed to be a favourite, an almost affectionate pat on the head. She gave the bruised, red haired girl, who had often been the bane of her existence, a light lipped smile which, utterly astonishingly, collapsed in on itself.

Mrs Spencer had already embraced Lily with alacrity and now the older sister had the younger sister in a firm handclasp.

"Mrs Spencer, this is Anne Shirley," Mrs Cadbury pushed the girl forward, or she might remain there, clinging onto Tom, forever.

Anne gave a wavering smile and a charming curtsy.

"How do you do, Mrs Spencer."

Mrs Spencer looked at the girl blankly. "A welcoming committee?" she sighed, clearly exasperated. "We really must be going, you know."

"Yes, of course. You only need to sign the papers," Mrs Cadbury tried to remain patient.

"I thought I might at least get a look at the boy first."

"Boy?" now Mrs Cadbury was herself perplexed. "This here is the girl for your other couple. Anne Shirley. She was eleven last March, very bright and – "

"Mrs Cadbury, for goodness' sake! We really don't have time for this. I must be taking the boy I requested with me. He needs to be on the train with me so they can pick him up at the station at Bright River."

"But you made no request for a boy!"

"I most certainly did. What would a farming couple do with a girl, I wonder? I am going back across to Prince Edward Island, Mrs Cadbury. Not onwards to Toronto!"

Both women looked at one another in amazement.

"The other couple want a boy?" Mrs Cadbury was losing all color, and after the events of the past week she had little enough to start with.

"Most definitely, Mrs Cadbury. They are expecting him. They have made all sorts of provisions. They are due to start the harvest, or due to start the planting or… honestly, I'm not really up with the particulars. All I know is they have need of a boy. They requested me bring them a boy. Do you have a boy for me to take then, Mrs Cadbury?"

"They don't want we because I'm not a boy?" Anne, who had been following the extraordinary exchange, now uttered with as tragic a tone as ever heard from her.

"Hush, please, Anne, just for a moment!" Mrs Cadbury was thinking quickly. There had been some mix up, some grave misunderstanding, and it was disaster heaped upon disaster. If this newest situation ever came to light she would be clutching her own carpet bag on her way out. She would be a laughing stock from Halifax to Charlottetown. And possibly Toronto.

And then there was the Inspector.

Mrs Cadbury had vowed she would look after the two of them. She had no idea how long until he would return. She was relieved to know that at least one child would be out of his reach, and she would do her best with the other. She could place one of them herself, perhaps, but not both.

"A boy, you say? Yes indeed, we have a boy," she now determined. "Twelve years old, and as hard a worker as I've ever come across. Tom!" she turned to him behind her.

"Yes, Ma'am?" Tom looked at her, clearly bewildered.

"Come here please!"

Tom came towards them annoyingly slowly; whether it was due to his injuries or a new, wary reticence she couldn't tell. He came to stand beside Anne, looking at his comrade, increasingly aghast.

"This is Thomas Caruthers, Mrs Spencer."

Mrs Spencer's nerves and her patience were now more than a little frayed. She barely glanced at the tall, fair headed boy.

"Yes, yes, fine. Let's please be off now!"

Several things then happened simultaneously. The little party of new and established Spencers began to move off. Mrs Cadbury signalled over Tom's head for Matron to gather his possessions, post haste. Anne and Tom clutched one another in a slow, awful dawning comprehension, and were thus hustled out the doors as one, together.

The cab was outside, waiting. Mrs Spencer was already arranging for the stowing of Lily's bag and having the driver assist the girls up into the carriage. Mrs Cadbury was talking in a low, fervent voice to the two young people just ahead of her.

"Anne, I'm sorry. There was a mistake. The couple wanted a boy all along. Exactly as Tom is here – he is of the perfect age and temperament. I will do my best for you, Anne, but for now you need to let Tom go instead."

"No, Ma'am," it was Tom who made dispute. "It's Anne's place. Anne's family."

"Tom, listen. Unfortunately it was never Anne's family. You must go. They need a boy and you yourself need a family."

"Please, Mrs Cadbury. It's not my place to go!"

"The Inspector has made it your place!" Mrs Cadbury hissed, making both Tom and Anne look like identical deer with their wide, appalled eyes. "I cannot protect you both! One has to go! I will see to Anne, Tom, but you must go! Now!"

Matron caught them, red faced and wheezing, holding a suspiciously neat bundle tied together as if a swag. Mrs Cadbury's eyes darted to Tom, furious.

"It appears you have been quite ready to go after all!" she accused.

Tom paled, and quickly changed tack. Anne looked on at him, heartbroken.

"Mrs Cadbury, what if we were to both go?" Tom now pleaded desperately. "I could work the farm, do all the jobs outside, and Anne would help out in the house."

Anne nodded her quick approval.

"Tom Caruthers!" Mrs Cadbury's own patience was at an end. "We may be a charitable institution, but we are not yet giving children away!"

"Mrs Cadbury!" Mrs Spencer called down from the cab. "We must leave now!"

Anne looked around wildly. Tom held fast to her. She was now holding onto both him and the carpet bag, and one of them would need to be relinquished before her strength gave way. Mrs Cadbury was beginning to tug at Tom, trying to extract him from her so that she could get him into the cab. Matron had thrown his little swag of belongings and his one jacket up to the driver, and was now trying to push him as Mrs Cadbury pulled. Tom continued his protests and his iron grip. The driver began to shout about ferries. Mrs Spencer began to shrill hysterically. Little Violet Spencer began to cry violently. Littlest Lily Jones Spencer, for the first time ever and in some sort of new sisterly bonding, began to do the same.

It was pandemonium.

Tom would never let go of her, Anne knew. They would both miss this family and never get another one. He would be left to a half life in some factory; half starved, overworked, broken. Instead, she had a quick flash of him – tall, strong, ruddy with health, cared for. Safe.

"Tom, you must go!" Anne sobbed. "Please! Do it for me! Take your chance!"

Tom looked at her, blue eyes wide, stricken.

"Anne?" he cried.

"Do it, Tom! Go!"

His mouth opened feebly, and his hands relaxed their grip. It was enough to have Mrs Cadbury grab a hold of him, and together both she and Matron had him, and then the driver took an arm and hauled him up, depositing him roughly onto the seat.

The driver lost no time standing on ceremony. He whipped at the horses and the cab gave a lurch.

"Find me, Anne!" Tom shouted down at her, his eyes wild as they locked with hers. "Find me!"

All she could do was nod, helplessly, as the horses leapt and the cab thundered away.

Mrs Cadbury watched it go, her relief turning to horror. They hadn't signed any papers for him.

Anne watched it go, exhausted and empty and spent. She dropped the carpet bag. It fell to the ground, immediately and disloyally disgorging its meagre contents.

Two little wooden figures tumbled out to lie at her feet, their pale, perfect forms glinting back up at her.


Chapter Notes

"Oh, don't cast up the follies of my youth to me." Anne of the Island (Ch. 27)

Thank you to everyone for your enthusiasm for and interest in Tom. As is obvious, his own story is only just beginning.