I am conscious of the room growing brighter. Still staring into the mirror, I watch Dr. Seton lift Mother’s wrist and take her pulse. He nods, and settles her arm back by her side. Father lets out a great, raging howl.

I flee from the room.

We huddle in the drawing room, uncertain how to continue. We are like figures from which all form, all color, all life has drained out. The curtains are pulled against the chill spring light. George sits by the fireplace, weeping. Gerald stares dumbly at his hands. Above us, we can hear Father’s wild sobs. Stella comes into the room, carrying a jug of warm milk and a bottle of brandy. You gaze into the fire, your eyes vacant. What has happened is beyond our understanding.

We sip the warm milk. Already the thought is beginning to dawn on me that Mother’s death could have been prevented. I picture Dr. Seton, always in a hurry, leaving the care of his patient to the nurses. I remember Father, wearing Mother out with his perpetual demands. You caught him perfectly in your novel, when you described his famished beak draining her energy dry. His cries will not reach her now.

Aunt Mary’s face is screwed into an imitation of misery. She holds out her hand and, when I shake it, crushes me unwillingly to her breast. Her jet beads cut into my cheek.

“You poor darling,” she says, rolling her eyes heavenward. She smells of camphor and cold cream. She spies Ellen coming down the stairs and releases me to remove her coat. Then she ushers me into the drawing room.

“I want you to promise,” she begins, settling herself in the chair by the fire, “I want you to promise that it is me you will come to if you have any little question or problem.” She leans herself back more comfortably against the cushions. “Now, let us talk about your lessons. Who is supervising your piano playing? I know the most marvelous tutor who would be only too delighted to instruct you. I hope you are not still seeing that dreadful Mrs. Watts.”