Mercy waited for Patience to tuck the blanket about the old widow’s frail body. The workhouse infirmary in the gable was icy cold even though warmth lingered in the evening air after the exceptionally warm May day.

“I’ll come back to check on you later,” Patience said as she stroked the woman’s sunken cheek.

“I’m so cold,” the woman replied in a plaintive whisper.

Patience looked longingly at the coal stove in the corner, which stood empty and unlit. The overseers of the workhouse doled out coal as sparingly as they did gruel.

All the beds in the infirmary were full, with many patients lying in the aisle on the floor upon straw with naught but ragged blankets to cover them. The sour acridness of urine permeated the room, and Mercy guessed some of the invalids were so ill that they had no choice but to lie in their own filth.

As Patience straightened, she was overcome by a fit of coughing that hunched her back and shook her thin body.

Dr. Bates’s words from two days ago crept into Mercy’s thoughts and taunted her. “Sick people at the workhouses don’t get better.”

Not Patience. Patience wouldn’t die.

Her once-vibrant sister straightened to reveal the ghost she’d become, her face skeletal, pasty, and lifeless. All except her eyes, which now met Mercy’s and were filled with peace.

Whenever she’d asked Patience about how she could be at such peace amidst the hardships threatening to drown them, Patience said that whenever she started to feel sorry for herself, she’d think about all those who were worse off. Then her problems would shrink in comparison.

“I must be a-going, Patience.” Mercy looked to the small, circular window, the only source of ventilation in the squalor. The darkness of night was creeping in, and she had yet to say farewell to Twiggy and Ash and her other brothers and sisters before she headed to the train station.

She’d already spent most of the day saying good-bye to all the children and neighbors who had come to rely upon her for assistance. She’d given them food and advice and as much love in a day as she could. She hated leaving them on their own, but she’d made arrangements with Mr. Hughes, the baker, and several other shop owners, hoping they would continue their kindness to the children in her neighborhood.

Patience reached for Mercy’s hand, and together they wound through the infirmary until Patience closed the door behind them and they stood in the equally cold hallway with only the tiny flicker of the flame from the candle Patience held. It illuminated the dark stairwell and the trails of mold growing on the wall.

“Now remember,” Mercy said as she already had at least a dozen times, “you have to be at the Columbia Mission Society building the first week of July for your interview.”