Then looked around the room.
"Has anyone asked whether somebody needed food?"
A man near the stove frowned.
"We're all getting portions."
"Yes."
"Then they shouldn't be taking extra."
Clara nodded.
"They shouldn't take supplies without telling us."
She looked toward the children.
"But I'd rather understand what happened before we start accusing people."
Miss Whitfield approached.
"I think the bread was taken during the night."
Clara frowned.
"Who was here?"
"Several families. A few men guarding the fire. The children slept in the back."
She considered that.
Then walked toward the small storage room.
A narrow window overlooked the alley behind the church.
The lower latch was loose.
Snow had gathered on the sill.
Someone had climbed through.
Clara looked down.
A few crumbs lay beside the wall.
She followed them toward a stack of folded blankets.
There, crouched behind a wooden chest, was a little girl named Annie Carter.
She was eight years old.
Her cheeks were pale.
Her dark hair hung in tangled braids.
And beneath her shawl, she held the missing loaf.
Clara stopped.
Annie looked up.
Her face crumpled.
"I'm sorry."
Clara knelt carefully.
"Hello, sweetheart."
The girl began crying.
"I wasn't going to eat it all."
Clara kept her voice gentle.
"Who was it for?"
Annie looked toward the doorway.
For a moment, she seemed afraid to answer.
Then she whispered, "My brother."
Clara's heart tightened.
"What's wrong with him?"
"He's hungry."
"Has he been eating at the church?"
Annie shook her head.
"He won't come."
"Why?"
The little girl stared at the bread.
Then whispered, "Daddy says we aren't supposed to take charity."
Clara closed her eyes briefly.
She knew Annie's father.
Peter Carter was a proud man, a former miner whose injured leg made winter work difficult.
He had accepted shelter when the family's cellar flooded.
But he refused most food contributions, insisting he would repay everything when he found work.
Apparently, his children had been eating less than they needed because he was ashamed to ask.
Clara sat on the floor beside Annie.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she held out her hand.
"May I see the bread?"
Annie reluctantly gave it to her.
Clara examined it.
The crust was coarse.
The loaf small.
But it was sound.
She handed it back.
"Take it to your brother."
Annie stared.
"Really?"
"Yes."
The girl's eyes widened.
Clara continued.
"And tell your father I want to speak with him."
Annie's expression changed.
"Is he in trouble?"