Wincing, too, to see her face close up in the bathroom mirror—often she was mystified that she looked so unlike herself, more resembling one of her older female relatives than herself; though in the eyes of the world, she supposed, she was—still—considered an attractive woman, well-groomed, poised, cultured. Her skin was still relatively unlined, her hair thick and glossy. She had not the courage, for instance, to dress other than expensively, as she would never have dared to appear in public without judicious makeup; her daughters, who’d scorned makeup when young, would have been appalled to see their mother without it, even in the privacy of her home.

Wiping her hands on a linen hand towel as discreetly as she could and returning the towel to its proper place as neatly as she’d found it.

Thank you! I am so grateful. I will not stay long, I promise.

Continuing now through the downstairs of the house, looking for—exactly what, she couldn’t recall, but she would recognize it when she saw it. A small item. A small item placed on a table … Unsteady on her feet and indeed the floorboards of the house were uneven, a characteristic of older houses, like basements—“cellars”—with oppressively low ceilings that could never be raised.

Giddiness increased, unless it was faintness. The sensation of unreality grew like waves lapping about her legs. She was hesitant to lean forward and lower her forehead to her knees to increase the blood flow into her brain, for she feared the action might make things worse and she would fall in a dead faint and be discovered by strangers and reported to authorities.

Had to lean against walls. Against the backs of chairs. She seemed to know the way—somewhere. Feeling the need to go upstairs, surrender her pride, and crawl on hands and knees up the (carpeted) staircase, out of breath and wincing with pain.

At the top of the stairs, resting for several minutes before heaving herself to her feet. Almost there, she consoled herself. Wherever it was she needed to go. She’d have to conserve her strength, dared not squander it heedlessly; once she’d slept for an hour, she was certain to feel much better and to know what to do next.

Someone she’d meant to contact—a husband? Her husband?

His name had fallen away, his face was a blur. His name—well, she would know his name, to which her own name was attached …

With the instinct of a blind creature she staggered into a room containing a bed. At the top of the stairs, first right. It was a large room—it was a large bed. Her trembling hands managed to pull back a satin comforter so that she could fall into the bed with a shuddering sigh—every bone in her body dissolving, disappearing into the most exquisite sleep; and when she opened her eyes, she found herself staring at a ceiling less than eight feet above her head, unless it was a low-hanging cumulus cloud. She smiled at the sight! Her brain was well rested, a kind of balm had washed over it.