Juno sat up slowly. Her mouth was dry, and it hurt to open her eyes. She was embarrassed even though there was no one around to see her. What was that about? She rubbed the spot on her thigh, wincing; there’d be a plum-sized bruise by tomorrow. For the first time in years she found herself wanting a drink—a strong one. If she was going to topple around like a drunkard, she might as well be one. It was all talk, though. She’d given up drinking ages ago, if only to prolong her life, and the stuff that Nigel kept in the house made the roof of Juno’s mouth ache. Enough with the pity party, old girl, she thought, it’s time to get up. She shifted so that her legs were folded beneath her and then dropped forward until she was on her hands and knees.

Last week she’d fallen in the bathroom and got a nasty cut when her forehead met the corner of the basin. She hadn’t passed out that time; she’d just been dizzy, but it had been enough to send her keeling over.

The cut throbbed now as she crawled like a dog, head down, her knees singing painfully, her hands and feet swollen and puffy like unbaked dough. When she reached the chaise longue, she hauled herself up using the last of her energy. She hurt, every last inch of her; she’d be paying for this fall for days.

“Ha!” she said, staring resentfully at the books.

She found her novel, sliding it from between the stacks and tucking it under her arm as she made her way to the nearest armchair. She hated sitting in the chaise longue; it made her feel too much like Winnie. But she made it through only one page before the exhaustion of the morning caught up to her.

Juno woke with a start. A male purple martin sat on a branch near the window, chortling. Tchew-wew, pew pew, choo, cher! She hadn’t seen one since before they’d all left before winter. As she sucked back the saliva that pooled in the corners of her mouth, her bottom lip quivered. She was drowsy, her limbs sleep soaked. It was her damn circulation again. She slapped her thighs with mottled hands, trying to get the feeling back. She was exhausted with a capital E.

As she pushed forward out of her chair, her book thudded to the rug, landing on its belly, pages crushed and folded like origami. She looked with alarm first at the book and then at the shadows, which were all wrong. Her head jerked in the direction of the window, which faced east toward the back garden. To the rear of the garden was a gate that led to an alley. Nigel Crouch often came home through that door, but the gate was closed, the latch still in place.