Hyacinth’s face became a mask of delight. She puffed out the candle and sat it smoking upon a stack of old books. She advanced to Rhiannon, wrapped a switch-thin arm around her back and guided her toward the basement steps.

The climb was almost impossible for Rhiannon, whose ankles buckled with each footfall. By the time they reached the kitchen she had lost all feeling in her legs.

She was frightened to discover that the main floor of the house was not appreciably brighter than the crawlspace, for the windows had been sheathed in tarpaper and every lamp she passed had its lightbulb purposely smashed.

With care, Hyacinth guided her form, which grew weaker with each tick of the clock, into the living room and sat her in the folding chair Rhiannon had spotted on the way in.

“This is only temporary,” Hyacinth purred, her tone maternal and assuring. “We’ll get you a chair befitting a woman of your stature as soon as we’re able to understand your message. Can you hear what I’ve been saying to you? No, no, don’t try to speak. Just blink your eyes once for yes and twice for no. That’s it. Good. And can you understand what I’ve been saying to you? Very good. Do you know what it is that has happened to you? No. Well, that’s to be expected, my dear. Don’t let it alarm you. It will take time.”

Hyacinth moved around to the front of the chair, hunched slightly to level her eyes with Rhiannon’s.

“There are some people outside, some really lovely people. They’ve been waiting a long time to see you. May I send them in?”

Rhiannon’s arms felt like concrete. Unable to lift them, she closed her eyes to press away the tears that were welling up and blurring her vision. Hyacinth took this to be an affirmative answer and squealed with delight before rushing to the front door.

The first pair to make the hesitant entry into the living room were the men Rhiannon had seen laughing on the street the night of her arrival, the men who’d loitered in the pooled light of the streetlamp, the men who’d scared her. They held hands as they approached her. They asked about the nature of their father’s illness.

Rhiannon’s cry for help translated into a staccato message, something in Spanish or perhaps Portuguese.

The men sighed and shed tears and blessed her for this message. Before they exited, they handed a small and crumpled envelope to Hyacinth, who was already greeting the next visitant.