My brave son nodded, but neither of us moved. Feliciana had offered to let us stay at her home until José got back, but I turned her down. I took a deep breath and steadied myself for the battle ahead as I twisted the tarnished brass knob.

The air in the house smelled stale. Dust motes swam in the slivers of daylight cutting through our windows. I set Teresita down as I moved about, bringing life back into the house.

Searching through the cupboard, I was disheartened by how little we had. I jumped slightly when I heard Menotti come into the room and sit down at the table.

“My darling, what are you doing here? You should be upstairs resting.”

“I don’t want to.” His lower lip popped out as he bowed his handsome little head, refusing to look at me.

“Would you like to go to your friend’s house?”

“No.”

“Well, I won’t have you sitting here. Go upstairs and open the windows. Get some fresh air flowing through here.” Menotti grimaced. “What is it? Do you not want to go upstairs?”

“No.” He traced a finger around a knot of wood, looking very much like his father. “If I open up the windows we’ll lose all of Rosita’s flowers.”

I thought for a moment and then went into the parlor. I pulled out Rosita’s favorite storybook. It contained fables from all around the world. “Here, Menotti, put your sister’s flowers in this before you open the window.”

He took the book from my hand before slowly climbing up the stairs.

I wondered if word of Rosita’s death had reached José. Shuffling into the kitchen, I pulled out the plates for our dinner. I set three plates down and then froze. My brain slowly processed the fact that we no longer needed three plates. The loss hit me all over again. My daughter was dead. I fought the army of tears that welled in my eyes as I shoved the extra plate back in the cupboard.

* * *

January 1846

José burst through the door unexpectedly in the afternoon while I sat in my chair doing my mending. Eyes wild with panic, he quickly scanned the room before training his gaze on me. With two large steps he was in front of me, lifting me up from the chair, pressing me in close. Breathing in deeply, I took in the scents of sandalwood, hay, and dirt. José buried his face in my hair. I could feel his warm breath, ragged and uneven, that of a man who thinks no one can hear him crying.

When he finally pulled away, wiping his face, he spoke. “They didn’t tell me you were sick. I didn’t know.”

“Don’t blame yourself.”

“No, Anita, I should have been here.” He cupped my face in his massive hands. “I arrived in Montevideo this morning to find all of Luisa’s letters written to both me and Anzani. The military didn’t want me to know what was happening with my family.”