Amelia hauled Elina into the small, scrappy room and dumped her on the little bed. The bedding was thin and worn, but she forced a careful calm into her hands as she cleaned the wound with the same hurried motions she always used for the child’s cuts and bruises—water from a chipped basin, rough cloth, a strip of old linen torn for a bandage. Her hands were efficient, but her face was hard. She wrapped the linen tight around the girl’s head and smoothed the hair away with a brusque hand, as if roughness could erase what she’d done.
She had barely straightened the blanket when a soft knock sounded at the front door. Amelia moved to answer it, wiping at her eyes to hide the red, frantic gulls of pain and rage. The door opened and her husband stepped in—tall, mid-aged, shoulders already slum
