For three days Amala clung to her bed, claiming to not feel well, barely eating any of the food brought to her, and reassuring her family members that it was nothing serious when they came to check on her. She wasn’t lying about not feeling well, even though she led others to believe it was a physical malady. The doctor was called again in spite of her protests. He checked her over and declared it was nothing serious and that it would pass with some good rest. After he’d left, Amala decided she was glad for his visit; his declaration on her behalf gave her more validity for just remaining in bed and doing nothing. Nothing was all she could manage beyond minimal personal hygiene and barely eating enough to keep hunger pangs from making her nauseated. While her heart was manifesting just how broken it had become, and her mind rumbled with regret over how her behavior had affected Henry, she felt physically drained of all strength, and the knots in her stomach often had a nauseating effect. Sometimes she believed her heart was experiencing literal pain, and her head often hurt—either from trying not to cry, or from crying inconsolably when no one was around.

Amala was told two days after she’d run away from Henry at the church that he had come to call and had spent most of the day—as he often did. Viola tried very hard to talk Amala into rallying herself to at least come and have tea with the family while he was there, saying with enthusiasm, “He does so enjoy your company.” But of course Amala had to decline, emphasizing that she just didn’t feel well enough to make herself presentable. Knowing he was in the house made her cry while she was alone; she missed him and wanted to spend time with him, but that would only drag out the painful inevitability more than it already had been. She was glad at least that he was here and spending time with the family. She didn’t want that to stop, even though she wasn’t certain how she could ever be in the same room with him and not be upset. She wondered how he was doing and knew that it couldn’t be good. But perhaps he was a better actor than she was; or perhaps he was just stronger in holding himself together. After his visit, Kat reported that he seemed a little down but otherwise he was the same old Henry. But then, Kat was not necessarily known for her powers of perception.

On the fourth day following the nightmarish episode with the vicar, Amala opened her eyes after a somewhat restful night, completely surprised by who was sitting casually in a chair near her bed, relaxed and reading and looking beautiful in the glow of morning light.

“Auntie Paulina,” Amala declared with delight, barely awake.