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“She must not be allowed to carry this child!” I balled up my fists, pressing them even harder against my legs. My entire body was filled with a cold, heavy liquid; it had replaced my blood, and I knew, from the bitter taste of it in my mouth, that it was terror. I had never experienced terror before, not even when Colonel Wood had tried to attack me.

Only Minnie could make me feel it; only Minnie could make me feel so many things, love and affection, and now, finally, cold, debilitating terror.

“Do your best to explain the facts, then. And don’t neglect to engage her husband,” Dr. Feinway said, rising. “Do you happen to have anything to drink? I could use a brandy about now.”

I nodded and rose; ringing for the maid, I asked her to show the doctor to the dining room, where we had a small stock of fine whiskey in decanters. Neither Charles nor I drank spirits, but we had some on hand for guests. Although, at the moment, I had a longing to join Dr. Feinway; I had to go to Minnie now, and the temptation to have something strong in me for courage was great.

But I did not; I walked back upstairs, down the hall, past Charles, who asked me, again, to look at his carving. I didn’t answer him. Instead I knocked on my sister’s door and let myself inside.

“ANNABELLE?”

“No, too silly.”

“Amelia?”

“Too serious.”

“Sarah?”

“Too plain.”

“Guinevere?”

“Too fancy!” Minnie laughed merrily, the shining tinkle of her laugh—like delicate bells—filling the air.

It was the only recognizable thing about her now. Her laugh, the sound of her voice—those things had not changed. Nor had her temperament: by turns serious and trusting, patience itself, always hopeful. She had borne her penance with a peacefulness I knew I could not have, were I in her place. But I could never be in her place; I had made my choice long ago.

Confined to her bed since the day that Dr. Feinway examined her, she had not complained. She had accepted it, not as her fate but rather as her privilege, almost as if receiving a benediction or blessing. So willing was she to obey the doctor’s orders, she scarcely moved from her back at all, as if for fear of dislodging the life that was so obviously overtaking hers.

For of course she refused to abort her child. I knew she would, but that hadn’t stopped me from dropping to my knees beside her bed and grasping her little hand, my tears punctuating my words.

“Minnie, darling, you don’t understand,” I began, faltering; I had never wanted to mention Uncle’s little cow to my sister, as that was my own personal Gethsemane. I never wanted it to be hers. But then I took a deep breath, squeezed her hand, and looked straight into her eyes.

“The child is not tiny, not like you think,” I made myself continue. “The child is most likely normal-size, just as I was—just as you were when you were born. The doctor was very certain that is the case.”

Minnie’s eyes widened, but she did not flinch. She absorbed the news gravely, her hand going to her abdomen, stroking it, caressing it. She remained silent for so long that I feared she hadn’t understood me completely.

“You do—you do understand the way babies are born,” I began, blushing. “You do understand how—how—”

“Of course I understand.” Minnie’s eyes blazed at me. “Honestly, Vinnie, how young do you think I am? I’m a married woman, just like you!”

I bit my lip and looked away. She was right, of course. I could have prevented this by treating her as I had always wanted to be treated myself—as a sensible adult, regardless of my size. But no, I had always wanted to protect her. And I had done my job too well.

Or had I? For after all, I had willingly snatched baby after baby out of her hands, causing her poor, tender heart to break over and over again. I had allowed her to respond to all those condolence letters. I still had them somewhere; I hadn’t been able to throw them away, and I hadn’t known just why. But now I did; they were portents, weren’t they? Harbingers of what lay ahead.

Concentrating on a