Jenny: The Robin on a Branch of Ivy

The Guttersnipe stiffened under Domitia's sudden embrace. She shied instinctively, then quelled the shying, hoping not to dampen the girl's impulsive gesture. The flame was taking. Perhaps the sudden blow of her father's death would not put her candle out altogether. She was not sure how they could communicate, sun and moon, so vastly different in their vastly different fields; yet she supposed it fitting that she had touched the girl and lit her up, at least this once.

This once. She remembered the girl from a month ago, thin and battered, hollow-faced, shy - fitful. In many ways they had stayed as far apart as ever since their first meeting, but in other ways the Guttersnipe, perhaps a little awkwardly, having no skill with other girls, had reached out and touched Domitia. Sometimes she thought she did more harm than good, and was left holding the broken pieces in the bewildered aftermath, which filled her with a burning frustration against the Irish girl. But for the sake of some faith which she dared not break, she tried again. And this time it felt almost like victory.

She kept quite still, afraid that if she moved, Domitia might dart away like one of the robins Frip chased.