There was a ghost in her room.

Her da’s had said there was no such thing as ghosts, but she was pretty sure there was a ghost in her room. Sometimes the curtains would move in the night, and she would hear strange noises from under the floorboards.

The other kids that lived there laughed at her and said there was no such thing as ghosts either. But she still wasn’t sure. Sometimes she saw things that they couldn’t, shapes in corners and movement on the roofs, but they were always gone by the time the boys checked.

They would laugh at her afterwards, and tuck her into her little bed in the corner, leaving the curtain cracked open so she could be comforted by their firelight. She felt safe and warm whilst they were there, but deeply afraid once they fell asleep.

She had a protector though, during those long hours lying awake. A friend she never had shown anyone, because even orphans have at least one. He lived under her covers, or in her pocket, and she would talk to him in the moonlight, long after the boys were asleep.

His name was Weatherfingers, he had told her, and her da's had left him to look after her. She had found him peeking out from the roots of a tree not long after they’d disappeared. He was made of something warm and heavy, and he fitted into the palm of her hand as if he'd been made for it.

He was a bit worn by rain, but his face was calm and beautiful, and she could feel the shape of it even in the dark. During the day, when the boys were out, she would let him sit on the corner of the window where the shutters didn’t quite fit, so he could see the world pass by, but she always hid him before they came back, just in case.

She didn’t think they would steal him, but they might laugh at him, and an unvoiced part of her was scared that might break his magic.

She clutched him in her hand now, her blankets wrapped around her like a cloak, watching the boys get themselves ready for the day. The ghosts had been loud last night, and they had gone out in the early dark, returning with bits of old rope and tar for the shutters, but it hadn’t helped.

They insisted it was just the wind, and they’d lit the fire extra big, but she knew it was something else.

They called her Kitten. She knew it wasn’t her proper name, but her real name had been long and winding, and time and cold had scrubbed it from her memory.

-

The boys were out today, as they were most days, but she had laid awake late last night, holding Weatherfingers tightly in her hand and listening to them talk.

The two younger ones, Wordsound and Truedream, had both been talking about school. She didn’t really understand much of that conversation, but she found it soothing to hear the tenor of their voices. Past the edge of the curtain, she had watched their shadows move with the firelight, as they sat on the floor, drinking beer and laughing together.

They would give her a little beer sometimes, but she didn’t like it much. She preferred it when they bought back the hot pies and mashed potato, or chips, or the muffins still warm from the oven. Those were the best.

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Then the older boy, (Blueyes, even though his eyes were brown!) had started talking about his new job cleaning up after horses, and she had covered herself with the blankets and gone to sleep.

She had seen a horse once, and the noise of its hooves against the street had haunted her for days afterwards. Only the repeated reassurances that horses couldn’t get up onto the greenways had convinced her to venture outside again, and she always checked both ways before moving out the door.

She liked Blueyes the most because he almost always slept in the house overnight, and it was nearly always him that brought hot food. She hoped the horses would be kind to him.

The others bought food too, but it was more often cold and not as tasty, and sometimes they forgot, or didn’t turn up for days.

In the summer she could walk around outside and pick the berries that grew on the greenways, gorging herself until she could eat no more, staining her hands with juice and sugar until she was sure the colours would never come out.

But the weather was getting colder, and there were fewer berries about now. The last time she’d been out had been disappointing, but it had rained a few days ago, so there might be some new growth.

Carefully, she pulled her coat off the hook by the door. It was a thick warm thing made of what must be a whole sheep, and it smelt of lanolin and safety. Wordsound said that it had belonged to his brother, but that he didn’t need it anymore, so it was hers now.

She loved him deeply for that.

The door was difficult to move, one of the hinges didn’t work anymore, but she could get it open if she put all of her weight behind it, making a gap big enough to get through.

With one hand in her coat pocket, Weatherfingers a comforting presence clutched in her small fingers, Kitten headed out to look for food.

-

Well, she was definitely lost. She had even resorted to taking out Weatherfingers, and asking if he knew where they were, but he had whispered back that he didn’t know either.

It had been going so well. She knew the area around her house as well as any child does. She knew where the best fatberries grew after rain, where the frogs lived, and any number of secret hiding places.

She had found a little basket discarded under a large thorny bush and spent an hour or so repairing it with leaves and grass. Then, with it over her arm and her skirts metaphorically hitched up, she had been ready to face the day.

There hadn’t been much to face, so she had ventured to the edge of her normal territory, almost to the end of the terrace. There she had found a garden full of bushes, all with big red fruits on, but as she was loading the fruit into her pockets and basket, a shouty-person came out, wielding some sort of club!

Kitten wasn’t really sure what they’d been shouting about, as she hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out, but they were loud and new, and even the friendlier new people were scary, awaking in her a deep fear of something she couldn’t quite identify.

Now, sitting in the mouth of an alleyway, she was unsure of where she was. At some point she had ended up back on ground level, but she didn’t remember how and she didn’t recognise this street. It was all movement and noise, horses and shouting. She had been drawn here by the smell of food, but now that she’d made it, she was far too afraid to venture out.

She hadn’t known many people, over her short life. She had to have had a mother at some point, the boys seemed insistent on that, but she only remembered her da’s.

First was the one with the long dark hair and the sharp face. He hadn’t spoken to her much, but he had always been around, and she had taken comfort in his presence.

Second was the one with fire for hair. A bright red, it had surrounded his head like a halo. He had always spoken gently to her, tucked her into bed sometimes, and the fire of his hair had kept the ghosts away even when they had no real fire of their own. Often he would go out during the day, but he had always come back at night.

Until he didn’t. One day she had come home from playing and found the house empty, both furniture and fire gone, never to return.

But they had left her Weatherfingers, she was sure of that. His fire was hidden deep inside, but he would keep her safe from ghosts. And, she reassured herself, the boys would find her, they had before, so they would again.

Crouched in the relative safety of the alleyway, her guardian clutched tightly between her hands, she sat and watched, as the world passed by.