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“Little drops of water, little grains of sand,” I began, unable to recall any song but the ones I used to teach in school. All the popular songs I had sung onstage to Kings and Queens escaped my mind at that moment; only the simplest ones, the ones I had taught to children, remained.

But it didn’t matter; no angelic smile, no whisper of relief, greeted my singing. I don’t think she heard me, and I wondered, later, if she asked only because she knew I needed to do something at that moment.

I remained there, half sitting, half reclining, rocking my sister for the longest time, crooning softly into her tangled mat of hair for hours, it seemed. I was still rocking, still crooning, my voice hoarse and dry, when I felt a hand upon my shoulder. Looking up, it took me a long moment to recognize Dr. Feinway; I was almost surprised to see him there, so fiercely had I tried to block out everything but the blessed weight of my sister in my arms.

But now that weight was motionless, cold. Minnie was no longer moaning or thrashing. Her eyes were shut, her long lashes coal-black against the marble white of her cheeks.

“Vinnie, she’s gone,” Dr. Feinway said gently but urgently. “The child still might have a chance, but we have to cut it from her. You need to leave now.”

“Leave?” I looked at Minnie, lying limply against my arms, peaceful for the first time in such a long while. “Rock me, Sister,” she had whispered, and I had. I had rocked her, finally, to sleep.

“Leave,” the doctor said, lifting me roughly off the bed so that I had to release my sister. She fell back, like a marionette whose strings had been cut, against the pillow that was soiled and drenched from her sweat, her blood.

I allowed Dr. Feinway to push me out of the room—until I caught a glimpse of the instruments the impassive nurse was laying out upon a table; there was a knife, with gleaming, sawlike teeth.

“No!” I wailed, wanting to run back in and warn Minnie. But Minnie wasn’t there anymore, and Dr. Feinway shut the door in my face; the handle turned until it locked. Then I heard a soft moan behind me. Spinning around, I saw Mama, who had been sitting sentry in the hall the whole time, slide off her chair and onto the floor, where I dropped to my knees just in time to catch her. Not a muscle moved on her kind, careworn face as she uttered only one cry, but it had all the love and worry of a lifetime in it.

“My baby,” she moaned, burying her face in my chest—only those two words, but there was no need for more. Then she started to weep, softly, as she clung to me. And I held my mother; I rocked her, too; I sang softly, scraps of songs that Minnie loved. Songs that I knew I would never sing again.

I had no sense of how much time passed, but when Dr. Feinway opened the door and said, “We could not save her daughter,” the windows were dark and someone had turned on the gaslights in the hall. I was surprised to see a tear roll down his patrician face; I had imagined him to be above emotion. That my sister had touched him so, in the short time he had known her, moved me beyond words.

“Do you want to see the child?” he asked.

“No! I don’t want to see that—that thing that killed my sister! Take it away! Take it away from here—”

“Vinnie, please.” Mama clutched at my sleeve with trembling hands, her face irrevocably old; I knew that from this moment on, she would look forward only to death, not life. “Please, for me, because I’m not strong enough. But you are.”

I hadn’t the heart to tell my mother she was wrong. So I gently nudged her off my lap, and rose on unsteady legs, and followed Dr. Feinway into the darkened room, still stuffy, but now a chill wind was blowing in from the window; the heat had broken and the air was cool, fresh, like spring. The nurse was methodically folding bloodstained linens and stuffing them in a wicker basket, the crimson faded to rust; despite the wind, the metallic smell of blood was everywhere. I thought, oddly, that I must replace the carpet and wallpaper in here; the