I pulled the shilling from my pocket, the silver dull and worn. “I became ill first,” I said. “A fever, chills. Nothing we hadn’t seen before. I recovered, but my parents fell ill soon after. My mother had it the worst.” I swallowed. “She died after only two days.” Marigold listened, head bent as she looked at the shilling in my hand. “Father held on longer. I was certain he would recover.” I shook my head. “One day, he called me to his bed. He pressed a shilling into my hand, told me to go to the bakery on the corner and buy a sweet for myself.” I paused. “He told me that he loved me. That
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