“Quinn is settled?” I ask.

She smothers a yawn and nods. “Doctor Perkins sent him to bed with a grain of morphine. Everyone says it’s rest he needs most, but oh, Miss Jennie, he’s got so thin, hasn’t he? Just the bones of his old self.”

“I think Will is gone forever.”

“Now, why would you say such a thing?” Mavis genuflects, then points the same finger on me, accusing. “Like you know something.”

I hadn’t meant to say such a thing. I hadn’t meant to speak at all.

“But you’re awful cold, Miss.” She catches my hand and squeezes, as though it’s she who frightened me, and not the other way around. “I’ll build up a fire.” She drops to kneel before the grate, steepling nubs of kindling. “And I’ll fetch you the rest of your clothing come morning,” she murmurs, “though you ought to be downstairs in the yellow room.” She strikes the match and sits back on her heels as the flame catches.

“Aunt Clara’d have given me the yellow room if I’d asked for it.” The hour is late, and I’m drained, but Mavis is a delicate soul, led often to fears and tears. “It’ll be pleasant roosting up here near you. Nobody to pester us.”

She attempts a smile. “Not Missus Sullivan, anyways. She sleeps like the dead, specially if she’d nipped into the cooking sherry. You’ll hear the mice, too. They get ornery when they’re hungry.” She waves off the phosphorus and steps back to watch the fire crackle. “I’m awful sorry, Miss. It pains me. This room’s not fit for the lady of the house.”

“I’m not the lady of this house.”

“Soon you will be, and everyone knows it. He’ll come back to you. By the New Year, I’ll predict.” She’s predicting a miracle.

I look down, and my fingers find my ring, which twinkles in the firelight like an extravagant and sentimental hope.

My tears will come later, I’m sure. Right now, I don’t want to believe it. I want to wake up from it.