Slowly I creep around to her side, the sole mourner at her deathbed.

Oh Frances, I think. But at least she wasn’t entirely alone, at the end. There was someone there to watch her, after all, from across the span of time, even if she didn’t know it.

And yet, now there is a dead body in this bed, and how am I to change the sheets while staring at her too-still flesh, her glassy eyes, her bloodied frozen mouth? I turn to get the fresh sheets, shuddering with the thought of working around her, wishing almost for the haunted sounds of her dying instead, thinking I may as well give up and wait until later, but luckily, when I turn back to the bed, it is just as empty and pristine as I left it, without so much as an indentation to indicate the death of the bedridden woman. Though that faint odor of illness remains in the air, Frances Wakefield is gone.

Tonight, Donovan will sleep where she died.

And the lone wind blows, wheezing its way inside. It’s a cold night, with frost creeping across the windowpane.

As if it’s any surprise to you, I cannot sleep—insomnia, my persistent companion, keeps me bleary-eyed awake, watching the clock tick its way to dawn. So off I go, to wander through the house in the dark, marking my way through time as I wait for sleep or for morning. Perhaps I will rearrange the furniture several inches to the right.

In the parlor, I find a figure sitting on the sofa. Hulking. A dark shape. I switch on the light.

“Donovan?” Tiny fingers of dread ease away from the pressure in my gut. “What are you doing up?”

He has been sitting in the dark, sitting and staring at nothing, with a strange smile on his face as if he is trying to work out a riddle.

“I heard something,” he says.

That off-putting smile does not leave his face. I feel I must tiptoe, unsure if that smile will crack into something else.

“This house makes noises sometimes,” I say, carefully. These old houses groan and sigh at night, like restless creatures. “It’s an old house. I’m surprised Elizabeth didn’t tell you about it.”

“She never talks about this place.” Then he shakes his head, still smiling without a hint of good humor. “I was trying to sleep, when I heard someone coughing. But there was no one there.” He shakes his head again. “Isn’t that funny?” By the way he says it, he doesn’t think it’s funny. Not at all.

“It’s funny how much Liz doesn’t talk about,” I say, sitting down and rubbing my arms against the chill in the room. “She must not talk much about us, I guess.”

“Oh, no. She talks about you. A lot. Sam this, Sam that.”

“Really?”

“Are you surprised?” He looks at me. “You’re her best friend.”

As I mull this over, a deep shivering cold invades me, and I cannot keep still. Donovan is in a T-shirt but sitting stiffly, uncomfortable.