‘Cold Blessing’ by Kelsey Hutton

The wind had gnawed his skin raw by the time they reached the nun’s door, the damp air sunk deep into his bones.

A warm orange glow leaked out of the small cottage into the night. While his daughter bounced about in front of him, immune to winter’s bite, he spread his hand out on the door. There, briefly. Not warmth, but a respite from the cold.

Then he shook himself straight and crushed the ice out of his moustache. He wasn’t here for respite. He was here so he would never need respite again.

He pulled Maisy in front so she could dart through the door as soon as the nun opened it. “Ready, girl?” he said. “Be good now, hear?”

The child was babbling to herself. She didn’t even look at him. Instead she careened a whitish lump about in the air. It was a bit of china clay, covered in silt, that had left streaks all over her hands — and, now that he looked closer, the sleeves of her best dress. And after he’d specifically made the wife wash her up!

“Creep, creep, creep,” she chirped and tried to march the clay over his coat cuff.

“Maisy, enough!” He jerked his arm back before it could leave marks on his Sunday suit. He tried to grab it out of her hand, but she twisted away. Her toady eyes bulged further as she laughed.

He unclenched his jaw with some effort. Very well. Let her keep her muck, along with that nose and those teeth and that hair. The fact of the matter was, washing wasn’t the problem. His only child would be plain no matter how coarse the brush. 
 
“There’d better be hope for you,” he muttered and rapped the door three times. Behind him, the sea roared.