Ana’s lassitude continued. She was definitely losing more weight. She had been forced to cancel her teaching and her near-term concert engagements. One morning she was sitting at the kitchen table, pale winter sunlight slanting through onto her fair hair. Drake noticed the translucent, waxen sheen to her forehead and the pattern of fine blue veins on her temples. He was filled with such dread that he could not speak.

The grim biopsy result, when it finally came, was no surprise. Tom delivered the news himself, one drizzly evening in early March.

“An operation?” Ana, as always, was calm and rational.

Tom shook his head.

“How about chemotherapy?”

“We’ll try that, naturally.” Tom hesitated. “But I have to tell you, Ana, the prognosis is not too good. We can certainly treat you, but we can’t cure you.”

“I guess that’s it, then.” Ana stood up, already a little unsteady on her feet because of muscle loss in her legs. “I’m going to bring coffee for all of us. It ought to have perked by now. Cream and sugar, Tom?”

“Uh… yes.” Tom looked up at her unhappily. “No, I mean, cream, no sugar. Whatever. Anything is fine.”

As soon as Ana was out of the room he turned to Drake. “She’s in denial. That’s natural, and it’s not surprising. It will take a while for her to adjust.”

“No.” Drake stood up and went across to the window. The last heavy snow of the winter was melting, and fresh green shoots of spring growth were poking through. A few more days would bring bloom to the snowdrops and crocuses.

“You don’t know Ana,” he went on. “She’s the ultimate realist. Not like me. Ana’s not in denial. I’m the one that’s in denial.”

“I’m going to prescribe painkillers for her,” Tom continued, as though he had not been listening. “All the painkillers she wants. There’s no virtue in pain. In a case like this I don’t worry about addiction.