The change did not last long, however. Sighing with the completion of her activities, Beth sank back onto the bed, listlessness already returning to dull her features. “There.”

In this instance, the severeness of Jane’s face served her well, for she formed such a picture of determination that Beth sat up again and draped her feet over the edge of the bed. “Forgive me, Jane. I am so tired.”

“That is only natural. You are exhausted, poor thing, and your blood is sluggish from being so much abed.” Jane saw the necessity for keeping her occupied. “But if we leave the room so untidy, your brother will remark on it.”

“Let him remark! Let him know my misery.”

“You cannot mean that.”

“No.” The momentary fire faded. “I do not.” Beth looked around the room, and tears sprang to her eyes. “You said that he suspects. . . . Why do you think that?”

Jane bit the inside of her cheek, uncertain if the knowledge would do more harm than good. Slowly, she said, “He asked me.”

Beth’s eyes widened, and she clutched Jane’s hand. “You did not tell him! I am undone if he knows.”

“No. No, my dear, of course I did not tell him. But he can tell from your manner that something is wrong.”

“Yes, yes. You are right. I see that now.” In a frenzy, Beth staggered up from the bed and began picking up clothes with a desperate fever. “He must not know about Henry. I should die—die, I tell you—if he did.”

Jane mistrusted Beth’s new animation as much as she did the melancholy which had kept her in bed. Watching her friend carefully, Jane picked up the books from the floor and frowned as she read the titles. The Mysteries of Udolpho, Memoirs of Emma Courtney, Romeo and Juliet, and The Orphan of the Rhine—all of them titles to excite the greatest emotions. Any one of them would have been enough to give the strongest of intellects a momentary pang of empathy for the fictional characters, but Beth, with her unhappy history, stood no chance against the powers of these combined authors. Jane bundled the books together, intent on trading them for volumes which might arouse feelings of happiness and reminders of the beauty in the world.

Beth tucked the last of her gowns back into the clothespress. Her face had taken on some color, but Jane did not give her time to reflect or for the listlessness to return. She pulled fresh threads out of the ether, weaving them together into skeins of light that she used to brighten the room, then handed them to Beth to tie off.

Jane then began hanging folds about the ceiling, mimicking the sunrises which Beth so loved. Beside her, Beth painstakingly tied the folds with hands that shook from so simple an exertion. Jane’s heart ached at her friend’s unhappy state.

Would compassion count as a strong emotion in Mr. Vincent’s eyes? For it was compassion for her friend which drove Jane to endow the room with life. Though he would not see this simple glamural, Jane felt a new awareness stir within her as she wove the folds around the walls. In the skeins creating an ash tree, Jane put her frustrations with Melody, picking out each small insult in the twisting lines of the branches. A patch of evening primroses held her confusion at Mr. Dunkirk’s actions, the petals alternating between pleasure and affront.