Her beautiful face twisted and her gray eyes went wide. “How dare you, Cecile,” she said. “What a horrible thing to say to me. Are you the only one who can feel things?”

Instantly I regretted the callousness of my remark, but it didn’t make it any less true. The enchantment that Father had cast had the subject falling in love with “the painter.” He hadn’t been more specific.

As we ascended the stairs, we met the landlady coming down, her face grave. “I did not know where to find you,” she said. “The doctor is with him now.”

I ran up the stairs to his room. It was dark and the smell—a putrid mixture of sweat and vomit—filled my nostrils. The doctor was opening the two windows, but the stifling summer air didn’t help.

“He says the breeze is too cold for him.” I looked over to see the outlines of Émile’s body. He appeared tiny even though he was covered in thick blankets.

“What is wrong with him?”

The doctor shook his head. “Frankly, I don’t know. It seems like malaria with the sweats, but it is as though he is bleeding somewhere. Yet I can’t find the source of it. He is getting weaker. It could be his kidneys.” The man picked up his bag. “There is nothing I can do. You should see him now. Stay with him and give him comfort, if you can.”

I felt Sylvie’s hand on my back. “I’m so sorry, Cecile.”

I could hardly breathe. “Can you go back and tell Father?”

There was a long silence. Sylvie understood what I meant by this request. I wanted a favor from Father. “Are you sure?” Even with his children, Father didn’t dole out favors freely. Something valuable would need to be claimed in return.

When I didn’t answer, she turned and left the room. She shut the door quietly so as not to disturb him.

I walked toward Émile’s bed. He was sleeping. As I sat down next to him, he began to heave and shake. His face was the color of stone. “I am here, my love.” I stroked his cheek. It had at least a week’s stubble.

He looked up at me, but I wasn’t sure he recognized me—his expression remained blank. I could see him ebbing.

Father arrived within the hour. Well, arrived is an odd choice of words, because he didn’t need to use a door. He just appeared in the room.

“He is dying.” I felt his presence; I didn’t even have to look up.

“It is your sister’s doing.” His voice was grave. “For that, I am sorry.”