The lights were out in her parents’ room, but at least the curtains were open, allowing morning sunshine for the lazy pug to nap in. Drawing the curtains was always Mama’s first move upon rising. Any comfort that gave Lily was eclipsed, however, by the sound of retching coming from the en suite bathroom. “Mama?” The connecting door was open, so she rushed through it.

Mama sat on the floor, one arm bracing herself against the toilet, the other waving Lily away. “I’ll be well, Lily. Must have been that old jar of fruit last night. I knew it didn’t smell quite right.” Her voice was hoarse, though Lily had no way of knowing whether it had been so before or was a result of the vomiting.

But she’d called her Lily—not Lilian.

Ignoring the waving hand, Lily knelt by her mother’s side and pressed a hand to her forehead. Warm, but not sizzling hot as some of the men in hospital were. “How is your breathing?”

Mama huffed out a breath that was reassuringly exasperated. “How does it sound? I’m telling you, it’s nothing to be worried about. I’m just going to take it easy this morning, and I’ll be right as rain by afternoon. You go about your day.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Not as quickly as this flu sometimes moved. There were far too many cases of people who weren’t even sick when they left for work in the morning being dead by teatime. It had all the nurses and aides at Charing Cross thoroughly shaken, never knowing with which patients the real danger lay. She fastened on a smile for Mama. “Are you ready to go back to bed, or not yet?”

“I do not need—”

“Humor me.”

Mama huffed again. And then closed her eyes, as if the better to sound out the state of her own stomach. A moment later, she nodded. “Let me rinse my mouth, then I believe I’ll be all right to go and lie down.”

“I’ll fetch you a basin once you’re comfortable again so you needn’t get up next time if you don’t want to.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

No. But if this was the flu that had London in its teeth, she could be in another hour. Please, God, no. Not Mama. Protect her, touch her, heal her. I beg you. She didn’t let herself think of the number of other prayers just like hers that must have been offered up in the last few weeks on behalf of other loved ones.

And of the number of times the Lord must have answered, I’m sorry, my child. But no.