Lily felt a burning need to see her grandmother alone, but she held back the words. She couldn't hurt Clara. They walked in through the main doors, into the elevator, and went to the fifth floor. Lily's heart pounded as they walked down the long, sterile corridor.

“In here,” Clara said. It was a private room. Sun slanted through the tall windows, rising over the Thames River. Lily blinked at the brightness. She heard the sounds of a monitor beeping. A yellow curtain was pulled partway around the bed. White blankets were pulled up, and Lily saw the shape of feet and legs underneath.

“Granny,” Lily breathed, coming around the curtain.

“Maeve, darling,” Clara said. “It's Mara. Mara has come home to see you. Darling, can you hear me? She's home . . .” Her voice broke, and she had to step away.

Lily stood by the bed. Her grandmother was right there, right there. She lay on her back, her long white hair spread behind her on the pillow. Her eyes were ever-so-slightly open—Lily saw their clear blue color as they flicked back and forth. Bending over, Lily took her hand. She pressed her lips to her grandmother's forehead.

The smell of sickness was in the air. It was perhaps that, almost more than anything, that brought hot, quick tears to Lily's eyes. Her grandmother had never smelled sick. She had always been followed by scents of roses, salt water, lemonade, orange tea, ginger cookies, and L'Air du Temps.

“Granny,” Lily whispered, her lips still touching her grandmother's skin. “I came back. I had to see you. Please wake up. Please wake up.”

“I thought,” Clara said quietly, “that hearing your voice might get through to her. Oh, dear, she has to know you're alive. I can't bear this happening to her, with her not knowing.”

Lily stroked her grandmother's hand. She knelt down so that her face was very close to Maeve's. She gazed at the familiar profile, lying there on the pillow. After her parents' deaths, she had been afraid to close her eyes and go to sleep. It was as if she couldn't bear knowing that she would have to wake up to a new day, knowing they wouldn't be there.

The last nine years had been like that. Every morning had been so hard to face—knowing that she had run away from someone just as close, just as dear, as her parents. Having to raise her daughter Rose never to know Maeve—depriving Rose of all the love that Maeve would have for them both—had been the hardest choice Lily had ever had to make.

“Did I do this?” Lily whispered, stroking her hair. “Did you just get too tired of waiting for us to come back?”

“Hello, Doctor,” she heard Clara say.

“Hi, Mrs. Littlefield. The nurses told me that you were here with someone—”

“She's a relative,” Clara said. “Maeve's next of kin.”

“I'm Dr. Kirkland,” he said.