Harry Evans was content, which was not something he had ever thought he would be. After his father's death in the Second World War, and his mother's subsequent suicide, Harry had grown up at Wool's Home for Children in London. He could barely remember his parents. He had no other family.
When he met Rose, he had fallen in love with her determination and optimism. She believed in a better life, and she included him in her plans, taking him with her when she left Wool's, finding them a place to live in those chancy early years, working hard and never giving up. There were days, even then, when Harry had felt like the luckiest man alive.
Now, that was all behind them, and Harry was sure of his good fortune. Rose was his wife. They had two wonderful daughters. Harry had a decent job. Their council flat was beginning to feel a little small, but Harry had every hope that, in a year's time, they would have enough savings to begin looking for a home of their own. Perhaps best of all, Harry could now afford to take a day off from work every now and then to spend with his family, or on his other passion: writing.
"See the numbers, Lily-Flower?" he said. "Can you help Daddy put the pages in order?"
Lily was not quite three, but she had her mother's gift for sums and figures, and knew all her numbers up to twenty already. They sat on the floor of the bedroom, the stack of typewritten pages between them. Rose had surprised Harry with the old typewriter two weeks before, for his twenty-first birthday. Lily read off the digits and handed the pages to her father, one by one.
"You remember the story you and Petty helped Daddy make? With the dragon princesses who grant wishes?"
Lily nodded vigorously. "One called Lee-lee."
Harry grinned. "That's right. One of them was named Lily. Well, Daddy is typing up that whole story, and we're going to see if we can't get it turned into a real book."
Lily's green eyes widened. "Like Peeta Ravit?"
"Exactly like Peter Rabbit," affirmed her father.
Noticing the plaster that he had put on her scraped knee the previous evening was coming loose, Harry reached for it. "Here, Lily-Flower. We'll get you a fresh one if you need it."
He was surprised to find that he could not see the scrape any longer. It had looked very red and raw when she had fallen on the pavement. Lily had cried for long minutes.
"Looks like you're all better, Sweetie," he said, smiling.
Lily nodded. "I fix it, Daddy."
"I'm glad to hear it." Harry bent to kiss the site of the injury.
When he sat back, his elbow caught the leg of the wobbly table he used for a writing desk. A mug, perched too close to the edge, tumbled off, spilling cold tea all over the pile of neatly-typed pages.
"Oh!" cried Harry, distressed. He glanced around frantically for anything that might be used to sop up the mess. Nothing. Nothing that would not be badly stained by the tea, now soaking into the pages, in any case.
"I fix it, Daddy."
Lily reached out her small hands and laid them flat on the stack of damp paper. Immediately, the liquid vanished. Not even a dark stain was left behind. Only the ruffled look of once-wet paper.
Lily picked up the mug and held it out to her father.
He stared at her.
"How did you do that, Lily-Flower?"