I rowed the distance between his grave and the House in a state somewhere between sleeping and waking, my arms and back pulling the long oars through the water. And though my eyes remained fixed upon the spot I departed, my traitorous body remembered far too well what Bart had taught me, and I shot the dinghy forward, steadily forward, carrying me into whatever lay ahead.

Jonathan waited at the pier, his ragged face horrible to see.

“Come quickly,” said he. “It is possible she will still revive.”

Wordlessly, I shipped the oars and took the cold hand he offered. Never the once did he look at me, then, holding his lantern up so I might see the lip of the gangway and the gap between the dock and ground, he assumed himself in his old position: my helpmate, and my guide. Dumb with sorrow, I let him lead me up the lawn, grown black beneath a perpetual cloud that had finally blotted out the moon, and into the House. The conversation ceased in the front room as I passed the open doorway and followed Jonathan up the wide staircase to Mama’s room. There, too, the door was open, and I approached the dismal scene slowly. Softly, I took a step forward, and then another, until I stood at Mama’s side.

She lay upon her pillows, her long hair loose about her face, still damp, and a streak of water slid slowly, like a forgotten tear, down the side of her neck. She had sunk a ghastly shade of pale, so white that it was almost lightness—as if she had traded places with that moon and it lay now upon her pillow, shining up at me. Mr. Cutting stood by on the other side of the bed, watching as Jessie held the bottle of hartshorn to Mama’s nostrils. She moaned very softly, and Jessie patted her cheek. “There it is, ma’am. That’s right.” Still I moved as if what I saw had nought to do with me, for I could neither lean forward to touch her nor aid in her comfort. Behind Jessie, Dr. Lewes had hold of Mama’s wrist; I saw her long white hand hung limp below his doctoring fingers, and I caught the infinitesimal shake of the man’s head as he listened for my mother’s life slowly running through her cold body.

Hovering this way, it was then I heard the very faintest cry from down the boathouse, and without a word, I turned from the bed and moved to listen at the threshold of the bedchamber; again came a cry, and so I fled.

“Maisie!” Jonathan called after me.