It’s a cold spring day and my belly is empty. You would think a baker’s daughter would never go hungry, but women come at dawn with their knives and their scowls, and my father sells every loaf at less than it cost him to make it. All except this crust, hidden in my skirt pocket. I wrap my tattered, once red cloak tight around my body and bow my head into the wind. Miserable, dirty people huddle on busy streets, casting murderous glares at the carriages which rattle past, spraying us all with...