Ah, what a Romantic he is, this Gerhard.

Instead of exhausting him, the morning’s exercise seems to have invigorated Gerhard. He escorts his wife into the house, kisses her tenderly, and practically bounds off down the hallway to his study, to be called for when luncheon’s ready. Typhoid, what typhoid? He’s a new man.

Elfriede, on the other hand. She glances at the clock—eleven-thirty—and considers the hour to be consumed before luncheon. She finds the housekeeper and informs her that she and Gerhard will take the meal together in the family dining room, that she and Gerhard will now be taking their afternoon and evening meals together unless notice is otherwise given. The housekeeper responds with a small smile, a tiny flicker of eyebrow that might mean relief, or satisfaction, or cynicism—who really knew the opinions of servants? Always there was this barrier. This metal shield between you and them. Elfriede returns what she hopes is a warm smile and drags herself up the stairs to her room to change for luncheon. She ought to wear something pretty, something to please her husband, something that will begin to bridge the distance between them.

Elfriede doesn’t ring the maid to help her. She’s used to dressing herself, and she dislikes the invasion of privacy that service requires. The poking and prodding of a stranger’s hands, the foreign gaze on her skin. As she unfastens her buttons, she discovers her fingers are shaking. That her stomach is somehow sick. And why? This is only what she wants, after all. This is only the answer to her prayer. Redemption. Resurrection! In time she’ll be a good mother. In time she’ll be a good wife, and Wilfred—yes, say his name, don’t be afraid—Wilfred, in some way she can’t quite explain to herself, can’t put into words, has given her the courage to do this thing, to return to her abandoned home and take up the unfinished yarns of her life and weave them together once more. She has been given this chance! She won’t waste it. Just imagine Johann with a brother, a sister. Imagine the joy on Gerhard’s face. Imagine a whole, happy, boisterous family. A miracle! Hers to create. Fingers, behave. Stomach, steady yourself. Button after button. White skin under sunlight. Oh God, she’s dizzy. She sits on the divan and puts her head between her knees. On the floor, the tweed skirt lies crumpled. The ivory blouse on top of that. The woolen jacket, she’s sitting on it. A knock on the door. She jumps to her feet and stares at the connecting door, the one attached to Gerhard’s bedroom, but this knock comes from the other door, the outer door.

“One moment,” she says.