As Mrs. B fussed about, fulfilling her morning duties—check the bedpan, replace the water in the basin, dip clean linens in cold vinegar—she turned to find Mary awake, staring out the wide-open window, very still, the way she’d been that first day, with a faraway look. The midwife turned to close up the panes. “Must’ve left it open all night. Didn’t even notice.”

“Leave it. Please. It’s like sleeping outdoors.”

Mary’d had a fever in the wee hours, Mrs. B remembered. The rounds of hot and cold hardly seemed separate anymore. It wasn’t easy to recall which was which, and when. She was happy to leave the window open now. The room smelled of sickness; it was hard to be rid of it. And the autumn morning was apple ripe, mists clinging to the ground, slowly warmed away by the soft September sun. Mrs. B felt Mary’s forehead, her cheeks. They were damp but cool.

Mary put her slender hand on top of the midwife’s, and searched her tired green eyes. “Am I dying, Mrs. B?”

Mrs. B took Mary’s thin wrist in her fingers, and found her pulse, slow and faint. “It’s not for me to say,” she said.

She didn’t believe in hiding things from patients or their families, but she believed in not giving up hope where there was any at all to be had.

“What about Fordyce?” said Mary. “What does he say?”

The midwife sat Mary up slowly so she could pat the pillows behind her, give them more air. “Dr. Fordyce recommends a wine diet. He believes it might be of some benefit.”

“Of course he does,” said Mary with a half smile. “But I’m not much of a drinker.”

Mrs. B laid her gently back against the pillows and returned the smile, unguarded. “Shall we brush those teeth, then?”

Mary nodded. Mrs. B didn’t have her usual salt and charcoal, but it would’ve been too much anyway. She used water and a rough cloth instead, taking her time. Mary’s tongue was hard and thick; the white coating had turned to brown fur that stuck to the edges of her teeth. The midwife cleaned each one as best she could.

There was no order to dying, but there were signs.

“What an irony it would be, wouldn’t it?” said Mary. “Me, finally content.”

Mrs. B didn’t answer. Didn’t think it needed answering. But she felt relieved when Marguerite knocked on the door, bringing little Fanny in with her. No matter how sallow Mary’s cheeks, her eyes sparkled at the sight of her girl.

“Bonjour, Maman!”

“Bonjour, ma chérie!” said Mary, patting the bed.

Marguerite lifted her onto it. Fanny sat cross-legged beside her mother.

“Have you seen your little sister today?”

“Yes. And we took flowers from the garden. For the nice woman who looks after her.”