She sat up and listened. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. Just snatches of voice, no words. Her father’s voice was the first to go away. Then, after a minute, Mrs. O’Brien’s and Hannah’s voices were gone, too.

Silence. But a presence lingered.

Then a soft knocking on the door.

“Come in,” said Amelia, her voice weak and scratchy.

She expected Mrs. O’Brien and was surprised and embarrassed when Hannah slowly entered her room. She hid her face.

“May I?” asked Hannah, pointing to the bed.

Amelia nodded. Her eyes shone with tears.

Hannah sat beside Amelia. Neither spoke for a long time, then Hannah said, “Are you okay?”

Amelia nodded again.

“I had to talk them into letting me come in here. Your father and Mrs. O’Brien were afraid you wouldn’t want me. But I wanted to.” Hannah inched closer to Amelia. “He really loves you, you know,” she said. “And you know this better than I do—he has a hard time showing how he feels and dealing with things head-on.”

Hannah’s arm touched Amelia’s shoulder. The soft pressure was a surprising comfort.

“There’s something you should know,” said Hannah. “He was worried, so worried, that you’d be upset if he and I were together. And when he couldn’t tell you—wouldn’t ask you if it was okay with you—I wanted to ask you myself. Because I wanted this to work out. So the other day, on impulse, I walked by the clay studio. Then I did it again. I hoped I’d just run into you by chance in the neighborhood.”

Hannah moved her fingers as if she were playing a piano on her lap. She smiled and raised her eyebrows. “I never found you,” she said. She stilled her hands and laced her fingers together. “Well, that’s not exactly true. I have to confess something. I think I did see you at that little coffee shop on Regent Street, but I chickened out. I didn’t want to embarrass you. And, I realized I had no idea what to say to you. I was afraid, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Crazy, huh? Adults are afraid, too.”

Amelia tried to swallow a gasp. “Oh,” she managed to say. Things were clicking into place in her mind, making sense.

“I felt like a stalker,” said Hannah. “It was not my best idea.” Strands of her hair were falling from her loose bun. Coppery tendrils framed her face. She played with one of them, twirling it. “He’d shown me a photo of you once. I kept thinking I saw you. Everywhere I went. But I liked him enough to do it. To look for you, to try to talk to you.” She flicked her hair away from her eyes, tucked a stray piece behind her ear. “I realized it wasn’t the right way to go about it—and I couldn’t do it, talk to you, without your father.”

Amelia regarded her seriously, listening to every word as if her very life depended on it.