“Who can? Except our Amazonian Lyddie?” Betsy’s laugh turned abruptly into a cough that shook the whole bed.

Lyddie scrunched up tightly into herself and tried to block out the sound and the rusty saw hacking through her own chest. Had Betsy been coughing like this for long? Why hadn’t she heard it before? Surely there must be some syrup or tonic, even opium …

“You must see the doctor about that cough,” Amelia said. “Promise me you will.”

“I’ll make a pact with you, Amelia. I’ll see the doctor if you’ll promise to stay until summer. I can’t think of Number Five without you.” She stopped to cough, then cleared her throat and said in a still husky voice, “How could I manage? You’re the plague of my life—my—my guardian angel.”

There was a funny kind of closeness between her roommates after that night, but even so, Amelia went home the last week of January to visit and didn’t come back. She wrote that her father had found her a teaching post in the next village. “Forgive me, Betsy,” she wrote. “And do, please, I beg you, go to see the doctor.”

*  *  *

With a bed to herself, Lyddie was less distressed by Betsy’s coughing. And though Betsy never quite got around to seeing Dr. Morris, she was better, Lyddie told herself. Surely the cough was less wracking than it had been. Lyddie missed Amelia. She would have imagined that she’d feel relief to have her gone, but Betsy was right. They both needed her in an odd sort of way—their nettlesome guardian angel.

Her cut was quite healed. Her hair grew out and covered the scar. She was working as well and as hard as ever. Her January pay came to eleven dollars and twenty cents, exclusive of board. Everything was going well for her when Mr. Marsden stopped her one evening as she was about to leave. The machines were quiet, so she could not pretend deafness.

“You’re feeling fine again? No problems with the—the head?” She nodded and made as if to go. “You have to take care of yourself. You’re my best girl, you know.” He put his hand on her sleeve. She looked down at it, and he slipped it off. His face reddened slightly, and his little round mouth worked a bit on the next sentence.

“We’re getting new operators in tomorrow—not nearly so clever as you, but promising. If I could put one in your care—let her work as a spare hand on one of your machines.”

Oh, hang it all. How could she say no? How could she explain that she must not be slowed down? She couldn’t have some dummy monkeying with her looms. “I got to make my pieces,” she muttered.