Again last night, I woke to the sounds of footsteps passing by our door, and swiftly as I could, I slipped from my covers. The footsteps continued lightly down the passage, then passed from hearing. I stood, my ear pressed to the door, and heard the footsteps return, then slow and stop in front of me on the other side of the door. The wood pushed against my shoulder as she whom I listened to leaned also into the door to listen. I barely breathed. Then she moved away, advancing again down the passage.

I eased open the door. Bathed in what little light the stars cast through the window, my mother’s nightdress wandered out of sight. I opened the door wider to watch her go, wishing to make sure she reentered her own room and found her nightwalking way back into her bed. But she did no such thing. At the end of the passage, she turned and glided back toward me, her white figure passing through the darkness like an unhitched star. Again she stopped before our door, and again she leaned forward as if to listen, so I swiftly closed the door. Now came the familiar pressure of the wood against my own body as my sleeping mother pressed to the door and listened for our breathing.

“What are you doing there, Nell?” I jumped in terror at the voice, unsure at first who spoke to me.

“Nothing,” I whispered back.

But I had hardly answered when I felt Susannah’s hand on my shoulder, and her voice again spoke into my ear.

“Is it Mother?”

I nodded and pointed to the door, my finger on my lips. Susannah drew closer to me, and together we listened to Mother. There came a low cough on the other side, and then she moved away.

I quick flung back into my own bed. Susannah followed more slowly and perched herself on the edge of my bed.

“I am frightened, Nell.”

I nodded.

“Nay, listen to me.” I looked up.

“There is something wrong with Mother.”

I smoothed the covers over my knee.

“We must do as the doctor has said,” she whispered sadly.

My eyes flew open, and now I sat up. “We cannot give Mother more drops.”

“What are we to do, then, Nell? Mother is not herself—it is clear—and perhaps more tonic will coax her wandering spirit to rest.”

“Nay, Sue.” I put my hand out to touch her. “How might it help poor Mother if her two girls contrive against her?”

“Not against.”

“Then how?”

“For her, Nell. The old her—the one who does not keep midnight vigils in the passage.”