Abigail could be ill for days, even weeks, and gravely so. Or she might perish that very night, in her sleep.

“I won’t let her go,” Evangeline whispered. “I’ll hold on to her with my heart and my mind and my soul. But I won’t let her go.”

Scully stood, drew Evangeline to her feet. “Get into bed, Eve, and rest awhile. That’s the best thing you could do for Abigail right now.”

“I’m afraid to close my eyes,” she confessed brokenly. “I’m afraid even to look away for a moment, in case—”

“I’ll be here,” Scully interrupted. “I’ll look after you both. If Abigail takes a turn for the worse, I’ll wake you up. I swear it, Eve.”

She hesitated for a while, then saw the sense in his words, much as she resisted it, and nodded. She took off her shoes and her dress, not even caring that Scully saw, maybe even wanting him to see, and crawled into bed in her camisole and drawers and long woolen stockings.

Beneath the layer of heavy quilts, she drew Abigail into her arms, sending the disgruntled kitten off in search of another place to curl up, and closed her eyes.

The room was black when she awakened, but Scully was still there, seated beside the bed. She could see the glint of his light hair. Abigail, cuddled up close to Evangeline, remained frightfully warm, and her breathing was labored, but there was a strength in her, the faintest glimmer of her old, tensile strength, that gave Evangeline a measure of fresh courage.

“You’ve been sitting right there,” she whispered to Scully, “all this while?”

She saw his grin flash. “I got up to stoke the fires a couple of times.”

She was rested, and she felt better able to cope with what was happening. Carefully, she pulled away from Abigail, got out of bed, and put her dress back on. Her hair had come down while she was sleeping, and she left it as it was, tumbling down her back, unpinned and unbrushed, not wanting to be bothered.

“You must be hungry, not to mention tired,” she said. “What time is it?”

“Round midnight, I reckon,” Scully said.

“You can go to bed now,” she told him. “Or I could make you something to eat.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he replied, and got up to light the lamp in the center of the table. He stood there, rubbing the back of his neck, obviously at a loss for something to do. He must have eaten, because he didn’t say anything about food.

“I’ll never be able to thank you enough,” Evangeline ventured. “You’ve been so kind. I don’t know what we would have done without you, Scully.” Nor do I know what we’ll do when you’ve gone. That will be a death, your leaving, all on its own.

“Out here, folks look after each other,” he said, with that strange shyness that overtook him sometimes. That distanced him from her. Maybe, she concluded, that was its purpose. “I’m just being neighborly, that’s all.”