Standing in the doorway to the salon, Genevieve saw that the younger boy was back at his schoolwork. The girl on the floor was still playing with the sparkly object, passing it from hand to hand. It was the stopper from Robert’s sherry decanter. The older girl was drawing on a piece of paper, holding the pencil with her left hand. Her curly hair hung down over her face.

And now she became aware of hushed voices behind another door. Paolo’s voice—unmistakable—speaking rapidly. Almost a whisper. Far too quiet for her to be able to make out the words. A pause, and then an older man replying curtly, abruptly. Genevieve moved closer, putting her ear to the door.

Paolo’s voice, from inside the room, grew louder. “Is that definite? Are you certain?”

“She’s dying.” The younger boy had gotten up from the bureau and was standing right behind her. There was an odd look on his face—a sort of pleading, as though his mother’s health was in her gift.

“But are you sure?” Paolo again.

“It’s obvious,” said the boy. “Isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said Genevieve. “Yes.”

The boy’s eyes were wide and staring. And suddenly all the arrogance was gone and he seemed to crumple. A sob escaped as he barged past her and blundered into his mother’s room, the door slamming shut after him.

The doctor was talking to Paolo, explaining something. Although she couldn’t hear the words, Genevieve recognized the patiently professional tone. It made her think of Doctor Peters—the way he used to talk to her when he explained, over and over, why she had to give baby Josephine away.

“There must be something,” said Paolo from behind the door. His voice had a desperation in it that Genevieve had never heard before. She couldn’t stand to hear any more—it was too awful. Alien in Paolo and yet horribly familiar.

As she moved away, back into the salon, she felt a great sadness rear up in her. It wasn’t just about losing Zachari. This was about something else too. Something she’d only fully acknowledged to herself just now in that sickroom, while a dying woman sneered at her.

The girl at the table lifted up her drawing and held it this way and that. It was a woman’s shoe.

Genevieve was crying, silently, as she stared down at the drawing. Her tears were for her lost baby. And for these lost children.

( forty-nine )

COME BACK FOR YOUR shoes, have you?”

Genevieve froze in the act of bending to ease off the gold shoes. She had hoped, prayed, that he would be in bed.

“I don’t feel well.” This was true. The sadness still gripped her. The stench of the sickroom lingered on in her nostrils. “Could we talk in the morning, Robert? I’d like to go to bed and sleep.”