By Saturday afternoon she was back in her own room, and by Sunday the pain had dulled. Dr. Craven had cut her hair away from the wound and bound her head in a proper bandage, but she took it off. She was going back to work the next day, bald spot and all. She’d never been vain—never had anything to be vain about, to tell the truth. No need to start in fussing over her looks now.

At first Amelia and Mrs. Bedlow objected to her returning to work so soon, but they quickly gave up. Lyddie would go to work no matter what. “If you can’t do the work …,” Mr. Marsden had said. Besides, Diana came by Sunday evening and said she was looking quite fit again. Diana should know, shouldn’t she?

She went to bed early, but she couldn’t sleep. Her head seemed to throb more when she was lying down. She thought about her family—suppose that cussed shuttle had killed her, or put out her eye? What would they do? And Diana. What was Lyddie to think? She hadn’t dared ask about Dr. Craven. Diana hadn’t explained why she sent for him instead of Dr. Morris, who usually cared for the girls at Number Five. Dr. Craven seemed as good a doctor as any—better. He didn’t leave a bill.

The curfew bell rang. Amelia came to bed. Betsy did too, though she kept her candle burning, studying into the night as she often did. At last she blew out the light, and slid down under the quilts. Then it began, that awful tearing sound that Lyddie would come to dread with every knotted inch of nerves through her whole silently screeching body. Finally it stopped.

“Betsy, I do wish you’d see Dr. Morris about that cough.” Amelia’s voice came from the next bed.

“I’m a big girl, Amelia. Don’t nag.”

“I’m not nagging. If you weren’t so stubborn …”

“What would he tell me, Amelia? To rest? How can I do that? I’ve only got a few more months to go. If I stop now—”

“I’m going to stop.”

“What?”

There was a sigh in the darkness. “I’m leaving—going home.”

“Home?”

“I—I’ve come to hate factory life. Oh Betsy, I hate what it’s doing to me. I don’t even know myself anymore. This corporation is turning me into a sour old spinster.”

“It’s just the winter.” Betsy’s voice was kinder than usual. “It’s hard to stay cheerful in the dark. Come spring you’ll be our resident saint once more.”

Amelia ignored the tease. “I’ve been through winter before,” she said. “It’s not the season.” She sighed again, more deeply than before. “I’m tired, Betsy. I can’t keep up the pace.”