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straightaway.”
    Janet climbed the stairs and silently opened the door to the sickroom. Satisfied that all was reasonably well, she headed up to her own floor. Slipping off her damp shoes, she flopped down on the freshly made bed and laced her fingers under her head. She forced herself to lie still and to keep her eyes closed, but her mind would not quieten. Soon she was staring at the ceiling and becoming restless.
    Rising, she left the bedroom, padded down the corridor and pushed open the door at the far end of the hallway. The room was littered with canvases and easels and tubes of paint. Misty sunshine filtered into the room from overhead skylights. Janet scrounged through half-finished works—works long forgotten: pastel gardens with fountains where Victorian ladies strolled at eventide. Almost always her gardens included shadowed nooks and crannies where she imagined lovers might steal a moment to linger, to touch a hand, to kiss an eager mouth. As Janet brushed her fingertips across a canvas she could hear, in her imagination, the nightingale calling for his mate to come to the fountain.
    Finally, her tired legs carried her to a daybed in the corner and she dropped gratefully onto the crumpled pillows. There, among the friendly smells of her old companions, she was able to sleep. Small lines between her eyes faded away and her face relaxed in repose. It seemed she had only closed her eyes when a hand touched her shoulder.
    “Miss Janet,” a voice came through her sleep.
    Janet’s eyes flew open. “Is she awake?”
    Lettie nodded. “She’s awake and asking for you.”
    Janet felt a gnawing in the pit of her stomach. “What time is it? How long have I been asleep?”
    “A good while. It’s after four. You go and see about your grandmother, and I’ll bring you a lovely cup of tea.”
    “That would be nice.”
    Janet sprang from the small bed and rushed back to her room to make herself presentable. She swiped a damp cloth over her face and touched a light coat of lipstick to her mouth. Running a quick comb through her hair, she shook back the flaming mass and tried to plump the top. Anxious to be on her way, she hurried from the room and bounded down the stairs.
    Hesitating briefly outside the door, Janet ran her hands down the sides of her legs and touched her hair before turning the knob and entering her grandmother’s bedchamber.

FOUR
     
    E lizabeth Lancaster’s round little head receded into a mound of pillows, her silver hair brushed back from a face that still held an unhealthy pallor. Her skeletal arms crossed her bosom and lay against the front of a handmade bed-jacket. Janet smothered a cry when her grandmother opened her eyes, which looked anguished and fearful. She darted to the bedside and gathered the small body into her arms.
    “Oh, Grandmother, thank God you’re feeling better.” Janet held her away and frowned. “You gave us quite a scare.”
    “I’m sorry to ruin your visit, my dear. But now I think I’m feeling stronger.” She patted a spot on the mattress.
    Janet perched gingerly on the edge.
    “You know Janet, Doctor says it’s my heart. He insists that I remain calm and not become disconcerted.”
    “Did something happen to upset you? Is that what brought on this attack?”
    “Perhaps so, dear.” The old woman spoke with deliberation, measuring her words. “Perhaps.” She threaded her fingers. “I didn’t want to call you. I don’t disrupt other people’s lives. You know I don’t.”
    “Grandmother, it’s okay.”
    “All day yesterday, and even last night after you arrived, I thought about what I have to say to you. I suppose it distressed me more than I realized.”
    “What could you have to tell me that would possibly put you in such a state as to jeopardize your life?”
    The reply was interrupted as Lettie entered the room carrying a tray. Janet rose from the bed and pulled a small table forward. Lettie placed the tray on the table and looked up.
    “Shall I