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“If you won’t think of yourself, then I will—shall I ask Charles to return to Bridgeport with me? I haven’t seen him nearly enough, and would enjoy a little bachelor vacation myself. Nancy will be in England visiting her family.” Nancy was his second wife; he had remarried following Charity’s death in 1873. I was no more fond of his second wife than I was of his first. Nancy was younger than I, vain and cold, interested only in the many material benefits of being Mrs. Phineas Taylor Barnum, for she spent no time with him.

“That would be good of you. I know Charles would enjoy it, for he’s been somewhat lost in all this. He’s beside himself with worry for Minnie—he spends some time with her each day, reading stories, but mainly he’s been left to his own devices.”

“I imagine this might lessen your own load a little, too. Charles is my good friend, but I know he requires a fair amount of handling.”

“Yes,” I admitted, again feeling the blessed relief of plain speaking; it was as if my stays had been loosened, as well as my tongue. I hadn’t been able to indulge myself like this in such a long time; for months, we all tiptoed about, not talking about the one thing that was on all our minds. It hovered in the air, unspoken, like smoke lingering from a burnt pot on a stove. And none of us made a move to clear it.

I was so grateful to Mr. Barnum for allowing me to speak what was in my heart; it was the desire to prolong this moment that caused me to blurt out, “She’s going to die, you know. It’s so obvious, I want to scream, but we all pretend and pretend not to see what we see. This child is not a tiny little fairy sprite. It’s a normal flesh-and-blood baby, and Minnie will not be able to survive its birth. We can’t pretend anymore.”

Mr. Barnum, to my everlasting gratitude, did not try to persuade me otherwise. “What will you do if the child lives?”

“I—I don’t know,” I sputtered, stunned. I had not thought of this possibility. I had not given the thing within my sister any identity or thought beyond its destructive nature. That was the only way I could see it: as the likely cause of Minnie’s death. It wasn’t a baby to me; it was a poison or a tumor or a fatal condition.

“You should prepare yourself, Vinnie. It’s a possible outcome, you know. I don’t imagine Edward will be in any position to care for a child alone. You must talk to Minnie and determine what she would wish. Most mothers,” he continued gently, seeing the horror upon my face, “give some thought to this, you know, regardless of their condition.”

“I can’t!” I shook my head; it felt as if the sun had just disappeared behind a cloud, so chilly was my soul. But the sun still shone brightly; I could see our shadows spilling across the lawn at our feet, one long and one short but so close together there was no space between.

“You must try. She might even be hoping that you do. It is my experience that the dying wish us to speak more plainly with them than we think—you heard what she said to me when I left. She’s trying to prepare us—she’s trying to prepare you.”

“No, you’re wrong. She’s hopeful—” I faltered, remembering the time—times, if I was being truthful—I had overheard her crying. But I shook my head, erasing them from my memory. She was not afraid, for the simple reason that I couldn’t bear for her to be. “What she said back there, she just meant for the present. She’s been knitting for the child, naming it—you heard! And you know Minnie. She’s always been so simple. She doesn’t understand what’s truly happening.”

“Vinnie, if you’ve ever done your sister a disservice—and I believe you think you have—it’s only in this: that you have persisted in thinking of her as younger and simpler than she really is.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench; suddenly our shadows appeared to me to be too close.

“Your sister is a woman, Vinnie. A woman who has chosen her own fate. You haven’t done it for her,