“No.” Polly sat next to him. “I didn’t even see any blood.”

“Did you see her?”

“No. She wouldn’t come out.”

They both thought about what that might mean. Polly flopped back and May crawled on her chest and purred. Polly turned her head to see past the ball of fur and watched blood ooze down Edmund’s back, through his torn shirt. She made him go upstairs to Dee, who said that they needed to go in for stitches and antibiotics. She admired his bravery but cat wounds were beyond her. Papa drove. Everyone knew them at the hospital.

That afternoon, Papa picked some of Dee’s roses and walked down to Mrs. Maw’s house. Polly and Edmund skulked behind, assuming the door wouldn’t open for him, either.

But it did. When Papa came out a few minutes later, he said he’d asked Mrs. Maw if she’d like him to have the cat put down. She said no and wanted Papa to give Polly something as a thank-you, a pretty embroidered handkerchief. When Papa explained the scenario, she opened a drawer and pulled out a small ivory pocketknife for Edmund.

Polly wanted the knife.

“She has no hair,” said Papa. “She wears a turban. In her head, she’s still young, and she wants to stay that way in other people’s minds. She’s not like us.”

As penance for giving Edmund and Polly a cold, Merle said he’d stay home when Dee and Papa and Jane needed to go to a friend’s birthday party in the city. No one suggested that Rita was up to the task.

Jane was apologetic and said she’d change her plans.

“No,” said Merle. “Let me. Have some fun.” He kissed Jane—not many things made Polly happier—and sent her off. He made them a real breakfast, frying bacon and eggs, hashing some potatoes on the side. He wiped the counters, and did the dishes, and even swept the kitchen floor. He would write for a while, he said, and they should go upstairs, since they were sick and it was raining. He didn’t care that Edmund, who avoided whatever floor Rita was on whenever possible, didn’t want to go. “Get your butt up there,” said Merle. “You can shut the door to Papa’s office. You can lock yourself in, for all I care.” But he patted Polly, as if it was a joke.

Upstairs, Rita was cleaning her brushes, still in her bathrobe. “Is everyone gone?”

“Dad is here,” said Polly.

“I know that, silly,” said Rita, going down the stairs.