“The children,” Mary said, then her eyelids fluttered and closed.

Noreen slammed her fist against the door again, over and over, and shouted, “Hey! Hey! Hey!”

Soon, a hammering came from the other side.

“Whisht, now, quit that.”

Ivan’s voice, firm and scolding, but not angry. Not yet.

“The child’s sick,” Noreen said. “She needs help.”

A pause, then, “Go on back from the door.”

Noreen descended the steps, halted near the bottom. The padlock rattled, the bolt clattered, and the door opened inward. Ivan stood there, blocking the light, his braces slung over his undershirt, his belly spilling over the top of his trousers. He peered down into the cellar at Mary’s wretched form.

“Hm,” he said. “You two, go on into the corner and don’t move from it till I tell you.”

Joy did as she was told, backing into the corner as far as she could, arms wrapped around herself. Noreen followed, keeping her eyes on Ivan as he came down the stairs.

“She needs medicine,” Noreen said.

“Whisht, now.”

He approached Mary’s bed. She stared up at him, unseeing, her breath coming in quick, shallow rasps. He reached down and placed his palm against her forehead, then her neck, her chest.

“Hm,” he said, then turned back towards the stairs.

“You have medicine for the cattle,” Noreen said. “You can give her some of that. She’ll die if you don’t.”

Ivan didn’t pause as he mounted the stairs, offered no reply.

Joy spoke, her voice cracking. “If she dies, I die.”

He climbed up to the door, stepped through, and locked it behind him.

Joy lay on the bed next to Mary, thinking of ways to die. All she needed was a bed sheet and something to tie it to. The method wasn’t the problem. The problem was Noreen, and her bloody stubborn will. Noreen would not let her go, she knew that. So, if Mary died, Joy would have to seek out a quiet place where she could not be saved.

A thought entered her mind, an idea that had appeared there before, always fleeting, always chased away for the wicked thing it was. But now it lingered, black and foul. Joy moved her hand to Mary’s throat, felt the heat and the sweat, felt the quickened pulse. All she had to do was squeeze; the child was so weak, there’d be no fight in her. Just a little pressure, just for a wee while. Then it would be over for her, and Joy could pull the sweat-soaked sheet from the bed and tie the knot that would take her away from this place. Let Noreen try and stop her. Just let her try.

Joy did not squeeze, though the idea remained like a poisoned wound. She buried her face between Mary’s shoulder and cheek, and she wept, grieving for them both.

She didn’t know Tam stood over her until he spoke.