He took a moment to reply as if searching for a place to begin, running his hand over his reddish-blond hair, stroking his trim goatee. “You wouldn’t know it from meeting Eloise, but she is a very fragile woman who struggles, from time to time, with melancholia.” He spoke as if it pained him to disparage her. “You were recommended to me as a bright, cheerful young lady, who I hope will be good medicine for her. Have you ever known someone with melancholia?”

“No, I’m sorry.” Ans wondered if the truth would cost her the job.

“Eloise goes for days, weeks, even months at a time when all is well, and no one would ever guess that anything was wrong. But then something triggers her sadness, and she falls into a pit that she can’t easily climb out of. It isn’t your task to keep her happy but to walk beside her in the darkness and make sure that she doesn’t . . .” He looked down at his desk for a long moment before looking up again. “That she doesn’t harm herself.” His words fell as soft as snowflakes. “Does that possibility frighten you, Miss De Vries?”

“To be perfectly honest, yes. But I took care of my grandmother during the final months of her life, and that was often difficult too.” Ans paused, then decided to take a chance. “May I ask why your wife might choose to harm herself?”

“Yes, of course. Her background is important to know.” He took a deep breath, then continued. “Eloise grew up in Belgium. She was a young woman like you when the surrounding nations decided to wage a war in the middle of her country. She lost her home and her parents to the violence and then her only brother, who was very dear to her. He was gassed and suffered horribly before he died. I’m not sure one ever recovers from such tragic losses, but Eloise has spent her lifetime trying. Valiantly.”

Ans had read accounts in school of the Great War in neighboring Belgium —the hellish trench warfare, the poison gas attacks, the endless devastation. “I’m so sorry, Professor. I can’t imagine suffering through such a terrible war. What can I do to help her?”

“There are certain events . . . sounds . . . even smells that distract her mind from the present and hurl her into the past. Into the pit. In time, you will learn what some of those trip wires are. You must become her lifeline, her tether, linking her to the present. You serve as a reminder of what is real and what isn’t. I need you to be a companion and a friend without giving the impression that you are her jailer.”

“I see.” A niggle of fear burrowed into her stomach. The job would be challenging, but hadn’t she wanted something different?