In the good room, sipping tea with a buttered scone on his plate, sat Mr. Thaddeus. Outrage swelled up in Lib.

But then, he didn’t count as a visitor, she told herself, being the parish priest and a member of the committee. And at least Sister Michael was sitting right beside Anna. Undoing her cloak, Lib caught the nun’s eye and mouthed an apology for her lateness.

“My dear child,” the priest was saying, “to answer your question, ’tis neither up nor down.”

“Where, then?” asked Anna. “Does it float between?”

“Purgatory should not be considered an actual place as much as time allotted for cleansing the soul.”

“How long a time, though, Mr. Thaddeus?” Anna, sitting up very straight, was as pale as milk. “I know ’tis seven years for every mortal sin we commit, because they offend against the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost, but I don’t know how many Pat committed, so I can’t do the sum.”

The priest sighed but didn’t contradict the child.

Lib was revolted by this mathematical mumbo jumbo. Was it Anna who was suffering from religious mania or her whole nation?

Mr. Thaddeus put down his cup.

Lib watched his plate for any crumb to fall. Not that she could really imagine Anna palming and swallowing it if it did.

“’Tis a process more than a fixed period,” he told Anna. “In the eternity of the Almighty’s love, there is no time.”

“But I don’t think Pat’s in heaven with God yet.”

Sister Michael’s fingers slid over Anna’s.

Watching, Lib hurt for the girl. As there’d been only two of them, the siblings must have clung together through the worst of times.

“Those in purgatory are not permitted to pray, of course,” said the priest, “but we may pray for them. To expiate their sins, to make amends—’tis like pouring water on their flames.”

“Oh, but I have, Mr. Thaddeus,” Anna assured him, eyes huge. “I’ve made a novena for the Holy Souls, nine days every month for nine months. I’ve said Saint Gertrude’s Prayer in the graveyard, and read Holy Scripture, and adored the Blessed Sacrament, and prayed for the intercession of all the saints—”

He held up one palm to hush her. “Well, then. That’s half a dozen acts of reparation already.”

“But that might not be enough water to put out Pat’s flames.”

Lib almost pitied the flailing priest.

“Don’t picture it as an actual fire,” he urged Anna, “so much as the soul’s painful sense of its unworthiness to come into God’s presence, its self-punishment, you see?”

The child let out one harsh sob.

Sister Michael cupped the child’s left hand in both of hers. “Come,” she murmured. “Didn’t Our Lord say, Be not afraid?”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Thaddeus. “Leave Pat to Our Heavenly Father.”

A tear raced down Anna’s swollen face, but she swiped it away.

“Ah, God love her, the tender dote,” whispered Rosaleen O’Donnell behind Lib in the doorway. Kitty hovered at her elbow.

Being part of this audience made Lib suddenly uneasy. Could the whole scene have been staged by the mother and the priest? And what about Sister Michael—was she comforting the girl or luring her further into the maze?

Mr. Thaddeus clasped his hands. “Will we pray, Anna?”

“Yes.” The girl flattened her hands together. “I adore thee, O most precious cross, adorned by the tender, delicate and venerable members of Jesus my Saviour, sprinkled and stained with his precious blood. I adore thee, O my God, nailed to the cross for love of me.”

It was the Dorothy prayer! Adore thee and adorned by, not Dorothy—that’s what Lib had been hearing over the past five days.

After the brief satisfaction of having solved the puzzle, she felt flat. Just another prayer; what was so special about it?

“Now, to the matter that’s brought me here, Anna,” said Mr. Thaddeus. “Your refusal to eat.”

Was the priest trying to absolve himself of all blame in the Englishwoman’s hearing? Then make her eat that plump scone this minute, Lib urged him silently.

Anna said something, very low.

“Speak up, my dear.”

“I don’t refuse, Mr. Thaddeus,” she said. “I just don’t eat.”

Lib watched those serious, puffy eyes.

“God sees into your heart,” said Mr. Thaddeus, “and he’s moved by your good intentions. Let’s pray that you’ll be granted the grace to take food.”

The nun was nodding.

The grace to take food! As if it were some miraculous power, when every dog, every caterpillar, was born with it.

The three prayed together silently for a few minutes. Then Mr. Thaddeus ate his scone, blessed the O’Donnells and Sister Michael, and took his leave.

Lib led Anna back to her bedroom. She could think of nothing to say, no way to refer to the conversation without insulting the child’s faith. All across the world, she told herself, people placed their trust in amulets or idols or magic words. Anna could believe whatever she liked for all Lib cared, if only she’d eat.

She opened All the Year Round and tried to find any article that looked remotely interesting.