We lie in our beds watching the darkness. Though we plead for a crack to be left in the curtains they are pulled tight against the certainty of drafts. I close my eyes to conjure the moonlight and listen for Mother’s footsteps on the stairs. There are guests tonight and we have helped her dress. I fastened her pearl necklace carefully round her neck and she promised to come and kiss us goodnight. I imagine her sitting at the table, handing round the plates of soup. If the dinner is a success she will tell us about her labors. She will describe the fidgety young man who must be coaxed into the conversation, and the woman whose talk of ailments has to be curtailed to avert alarm. She will tell us these things not for our amusement but because she wants us to benefit from the example. We must learn, she will remind us with a judicious nod of her head, that the hostess cannot leave her place at table until those around her are at their ease. Her own wishes, and those of her daughters, must be placed second to the needs of others.

The darkness is so intense it seems to be alive. I think of the silver candelabra, drawing those seated round the table into a circle of light. A floorboard creaks and I turn toward the sound.

“Mother?” I whisper.

Your hand is on my arm. I have forgotten you in my musings. I pull back the bedclothes and make room for you. We lie shoulder to shoulder, comforted by each other’s presence. You clear your throat and begin.

“Mrs. Dilke,” you say in your storytelling voice, “was most surprised one morning to discover that the family had run out of eggs.” I settle back on my pillow and let your words weave their spell. Soon I have forgotten the darkness and Mother’s broken promise. I am caught up in your world of make-believe. I fall asleep dreaming of hobgoblins and golden hens and eggs fried for breakfast with plenty of frizzle.

“Is she reading it?”

I stand by the window that allows us to see into the drawing room from the conservatory where we work. Mother is in her armchair, the latest copy of our newspaper on the table beside her. She has a letter in her hand and I can tell from the movement of her lips that she is reading parts of it aloud to Father. He is in the armchair next to her and appears engrossed in his book. You are crouching on the floor beside me, your hands pulling nervously at a cushion. Your agitation surprises me. The newspaper is something we have compiled for fun. I peer through the window.

“She’s finishing her letter, folding it back into its envelope.”

“And has she picked up the newspaper?”