Ella was angry. More angry than she had ever been in her life. How dare they? How dare her mother and her ugly-minded friends come here bearing rumour and spite?
She pummelled the bread dough with her small work-roughened hands and slowly regained her composure.
By the time the black door opened, the house was full of good smells and Ella was just lifting a pastry lid onto a deep dish of apples and cinnamon.
Tom came and nuzzled the back of her neck. He looked at the evidence of an afternoon’s baking.
“Your mam been here again?”