— I should have guessed. A man doesn't ask for a divorce right out of the blue. —

— Good night, Vicky. —

— Hey. Hey, are you okay? —

— I just don't want to talk. — Julia hung up.

For a long time, she sat motionless. Above her head, the firefly kept circling, desperately searching for a way out of its prison. Eventually it would exhaust itself. Trapped here without food, without water, it would die in this room.

She climbed up onto the mattress. As the firefly darted closer, she caught it in her hands. Palms cupped around the insect, she walked barefoot to the kitchen and opened the back door. There, on the porch, she released the firefly. It fluttered away into the darkness, its light no longer winking, escape its only objective.

Did it know she'd saved its life? One puny thing she was capable of.

She lingered on the porch, breathing in gulps of night air, unable to bear the thought of returning to that hot little bedroom.

Richard was getting married.

Her breath caught in her throat, spilled out in a sob. She gripped the porch railing and felt splinters prick her fingers.

And I'm the last to find out.

Staring into the night, she thought of the bones that had been buried just a few dozen yards away. A forgotten woman, her name lost to the centuries. She thought of cold earth pressing down as winter snows swirled above, of seasons cycling, the decades passing, while flesh rotted and worms feasted. I'm like you, another forgotten woman, she thought.

And I don't even know who you are.

Two

November 1830

DEATH ARRIVED with the sweet tinkling of bells.

Rose Connolly had come to dread the sound, for she'd heard it too many times already as she sat beside her sister's hospital bed, dabbing Aurnia's forehead, holding her hand and offering her sips of water.