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sudden lack of freedom, Percy sensed something was wrong. No one in the house had ever behaved in such a panicked, hushed way. He had never seen his father in such a frantic state—unshaven, hair unpowdered and unchanged, crumpled clothes.
    And Mrs. Dale, although she had always been kind and grandmotherly to him, became now even more protective, trying to keep his attention away from what was happening downstairs. Percy did not protest, but as soon as her chin fell over her bosom and she began to emit soft snores, he ran downstairs.
    No one had told him anything, yet Percy knew with absolute certainty that that highly unusual state of affairs had something to do with his mother and the baby that had made her slim figure swell so much.
    He was very afraid. He needed to see her. He wanted to tell her that he loved her very much, and that it was all right to send the baby away if it didn’t want to come live with them.
    But his courage fled him when he reached the dark passage. Too many people moved frantically around. They would never let him in her bedchamber. He had not thought of that. He’d hoped she would be alone and he could quietly sneak in and sit next to her on the bed, as he often used to do.
    Other unfamiliar things alerted and frightened him even more; above all, a strange and unfamiliar smell that permeated the passage.
    A maid who passed him was weeping. Percy suddenly felt his heart in his throat and blinked against tears. He forgot to be brave and not to cry. He only wanted to see his mother now. Something was very, very wrong.
    Heedless of adults, he dashed out from his hiding place and ran across the corridor. In the door to his mother’s room, he nearly collided with two loudly sobbing maids carrying out a huge basket of bloodied sheets.
    Terror swept over him. He pushed past the girls and into the room before they had time to close the door.
    His father was there, kneeling by the bed, holding his mother’s motionless hand and howling with pain. Mrs. Smith, the housekeeper, stood at the foot of the bed crying, as did his mother’s maid. Two other girls, whom he recognized as the kitchen staff, were cleaning out more bloodied sheets and wiping their wet faces with dirty hands. A stranger in black clothes was packing some strange instruments in a vast, black bag. And the smell that assaulted his nostrils in the passage was overwhelming here.
    In the midst of all this, his mother, her face paler than the pillow on which her head rested, lay motionless, her eyes closed. Although Percy had never seen a dead person before, he knew with the inexplicable instinct of a child that his mother was no more. He didn’t want to believe it.
    “Mama!” he cried and threw himself on the carpet next to his father.
    “Someone take the boy out,” said the stranger with the black bag. “This is not a place for him.”
    But his father’s arm came about his small shoulders, and he was suddenly pulled into the heat and sweat and tears, and held there, as in a vise, against a hard, masculine chest.
    “We lost them, Percy.” Sobs racked his father’s body. “We lost them.”
    Percy wriggled enough to cast another look at his mother’s colorless face. She reminded him of one of the tombstone figures in their church. He knew somehow that that was where she belonged from now on. She’d crossed from one world to another, just as Mrs. Dale had told him happened to everyone who died.
    He hid his face in his father’s shirt and began to cry.
    Percy hissed and opened his eyes when the hot wax from the candle dripped on his palm.
    He was alone, wrapped in the silence of an abandoned house. The wet heat that covered his face was his own tears.
    After a deep breath, Percy pushed away from the wall.
    He had to summon the courage and go in there now so that his mind would be clear in the morning when he returned to officially take possession of the house.
    He forced himself to move and presently opened the door.
    His mother’s