Snow fell lazily, silently; no wind blew, and the sky seemed low enough to touch. The snow built up on level surfaces, on tree branches, on the needles of the pines and spruces. It sifted down through a crack between a gutter and the roof of the hospital and built a short wall of snow that soon would topple of its own weight. Snow covered the land, unsullied, pure, layer on layer so that in protected spots where no intermittent sun melted it and no wind disturbed it, the snow depth had grown to six, seven, even eight feet. Against the whiteness, shadowed into grays and blues, the river gleamed black. The clouds were so thick the light that lay over the land seemed to come upward from the snow. The light was very dim, and in the distance the snow and sky and air merged and there were no boundaries.

No boundaries, Molly thought. It was all one. She stood at her window. Behind her an easel waited with a painting on it, but she couldn't think of it now. The snow, the strange light that came from below, the wholeness of the scene outside held her.

"Molly!"

She turned sharply. Miriam stood in the doorway, still wearing her outdoor clothing, snow clinging to her shoulders, her hood.

"I said, Meg's been hurt! Didn't you hear me?"

"Hurt? How? What happened?"

Miriam stared at her for a moment, then shook her head. "You didn't know, did you?"

Molly felt disoriented, as if she were a stranger who had wandered in and understood nothing. The painting looked garish, ugly, meaningless to her. Now she could sense Meg's pain and fear, and the sisters' presence easing it. They needed her, she thought clearly, and didn't understand why, and Meg faded from her thoughts. "Where is she?" she asked. "What happened? I'll come with you."

Miriam looked at her and shook her head. "Don't come," she said. "Stay here." She went away.

When Molly learned where Meg was and went to the hospital room to be with her sisters, they would not let her in.

Ben looked at his brothers and shrugged at the question: What were they to do about Molly? Exile her, as they had exiled David? Isolate her in a hospital room? Quarter her with the breeders—the mothers? Ignore the problem? They had discussed every alternative and were satisfied with none.

"There's nothing to indicate she is making progress," Barry said. "Nothing to indicate she even wants to resume a normal life."

"Since there's no precedent for anything like this, whatever we decide will have to be the right thing," Bruce said soberly. His thick eyebrows drew together, separated. "Ben, she's your patient. You haven't said a thing. You were certain that allowing her to paint would be therapeutic, but it wasn't. Have you any other suggestions?"