The neighbor’s boy had left the door on the latch, and an oil lamp, its flame turned low, waited on a high windowsill. Her father collected it in one hand, gathered his cloak in the other, and together they began the slow trudge to the top floor. They paused at each half landing, waiting for the pain in her father’s arthritic feet to subside. It was the price he had to pay, he often said, for living in the most beautiful city in the world.

“I fear I am even slower than usual. A tortoise would surely take less time.”

“I don’t mind. And it’s better than arriving even more short of breath than Signora Mele. I cannot imagine how she manages all these steps.”

“I suspect she doesn’t. I know she relies on Signora Spagnolo downstairs to do her shopping.”

“And the housework?” Antonina asked.

“We shall see. But if her home is less than pristine we mustn’t take any notice,” he cautioned. “It would only shame her, and in turn make her less likely to ask for me when she’s poorly.”

They knocked at her door, paused to listen for footsteps, and when none came her father entered the apartment. “Signora Mele? It is Dr. Mazin. May we come in?”

A muffled response came from the far end of the apartment—the bedroom, Antonina remembered from their last visit. Following their ears, they found Signora Mele sitting in an upright chair next to her bed, a shawl around her shoulders. Her feet, just peeping out from the hem of her nightgown, were bare. She was clutching at the wooden arms of the chair, her fingers tinged with blue, and Antonina could easily hear the shallow rasp of her breathing from across the room.

“My dear Signora Mele,” her father began, his tone a practiced mixture of warmth and concern. “It was very brave of you to get out of bed to greet us, but I would be happier to see you settled and comfortable. Will you allow Antonina to assist you? I shall wash my hands in the meantime.”

Once his patient was sitting up in bed, the pillows arranged carefully at her back, Dr. Mazin examined her with meticulous care. When he was finished, he tucked the covers around her. “We don’t want you to catch cold. There. Now I am going to give you a tincture—it will help with your breathing tonight. Antonina, will you bring over the bottle I set out?”

Signora Mele swallowed the medicine without protest, but even that small effort seemed to exhaust her. “What is wrong? Why am I so tired?”