In the kitchen a dog lies dead, dragged into one corner. Its hind legs are strapped to a cart. Its skull appears crushed. I call out, but again Berta ignores me; she rushes between her patients, barks at me to boil more water, to find a clean cloth and cut it into strips.

It keeps my hands busy and my mind free. I watch as Berta applies a cold flannel to Mowgli’s head and sings to calm him; then crouches over Lady Naylor and cleans up her face. She sends me out when it comes to undressing her and examining her hip. Lady Naylor is conscious, watching me retreat across the length of the room.

I stand outside and weigh that look.

Why exactly did I do it? Agree to help her when she asked? When I knocked on her door late that night I came only to plead for Mowgli. Berta had sent me. We thought he might be as I am, blighted, incapable of Smoke. I explained my condition and watched milady start in shock and recognition. She gave me more that night than the promise of a child. “I have use for you,” she said. “You cannot smoke. But you can be Smoke’s shepherd.” She did not pressure or cajole; did not see fit to explain her thoughts or confide the details of her plans. A noblewoman talking to a commoner: she never pretended we were equals. But she shook my hand when I left, long-fingered and firm. It was then I knew I would assist her.

Can a man such as I be seduced by a courtesy?

And so I lied to Livia. It made sense, ensured that she and the boys were safe from reproach. The lie came easily. What frightened me was how small was my capacity for shame.

ф

Berta emerges. She is shaking her head.

“It’s the top of her thighbone. I cannot set it. She needs a surgeon. If it infects—”

“There is a dog in the kitchen.”

“It went mad,” she answers, obscurely, as though that explains its presence. “I smoked and it went mad. Angry, snapping at me. But it was sad too. A mad dog with a broken heart.” She grimaces, shudders. “It seemed a mercy, Tobias.”

“I will get rid of it.”

“Leave it by the street corner. Someone will take it for its meat. It’s January. A hungry month.”

When I return, I look in on Lady Naylor. She remains awake, tucked under sheet and blanket, her dress draped over the backboard flaring its skirts.

Her eyes are wet with tears.

“My son is dead,” she whispers when I draw closer. “But my daughter loves me.”

I watch a shiver ripple through her frame, bend down to her mangled, bandaged face.

“Your Smoke,” I tell her. “When you said good-bye to your daughter. It looked different.” I search for the right word, cannot find it. “Weak. Thin. Reluctant.”