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a few pieces of jewelry and pawned them, then bought expensive foods to encourage the child to eat, but to no avail. When Hervey left untouched some grapes—plump violet greenhouse grapes that Sammy eyed for two days—Fanny quietly put them on the older boy’s bedside table.
    The winter days passed slowly. Her admirer, the surgeon, had departed a month earlier for Italy, and she wished she had not restricted herself so much to only his company. Without him, she had no male protector in Paris.
    On his last visit to their apartment before his departure, he had looked at Hervey lying on the sofa, looked at her and the children growing thinner, grimaced at the shabby furnishings, and blurted out, “What will become of all of you when I leave?” It was not insincere, his concern. But it wasn’t enough to keep him there. She couldn’t blame him for fleeing troubles that he didn’t want as his own.
    Fanny fought off melancholy with sewing projects during the gray winter hours—patching stockings, making a costume for Belle. Mr. Julian announced that he would give a fancy dress party for the ladies at the New Year, and everyone was encouraged to come. There would be piano music, and the students already knew the refreshments: brioche, wine, and fruit. Fanny’s stomach growled to think of it. She pieced together a colorful dress for Belle out of two old ones, and a headdress from the leftover material. Fanny wanted the girl to feel as festive as the others. She would stay home, but it would be a chance for Belle to escape the dreariness of evenings in the apartment.
    Every few minutes, Fanny looked up from her sewing to observe Hervey. He was so thin now. Once his cheeks had been fat’d and he’d had the sunniest disposition. She had carried him in a sling when he was tiny, when his head was smooth as an egg, and they fit together as if they were one piece. How vividly she remembered the day he was born! The midwife had held him up by the feet, and Fanny had fallen instantly in love with that little upside-down petal-pink face. He was her final vote of confidence in her marriage and the last good thing she took from it. How, in the face of such beauty and hope, could Sam have taken on yet another woman? Fanny knew then that Hervey was her last child, and she would keep him for herself. She would never say it aloud, but of the three, he was her best beloved.
    During those lonely Paris hours, she sang every song she could think of to Hervey, and helped him hold a crayon in his hand to draw the lions, always in cages, that he preferred as his subject matter. When the boy slept, she kept herself awake by composing lengthy letters, cajoling her friends to write.
Do
send me some gossip,
she wrote to Rearden.
You know I love to hear about our literary friends. But no bad news. I could not bear it right now. Above all, don’t tell Sam that Hervey is sick, I beg of you.
    Day to day, she debated whether to alert Sam. The strange reality was that she could not discern how serious Hervey’s illness was. In the past week the boy had been delirious with a fever, but then yesterday he had recovered. He’d sat up, smiling, and played with Sammy and seemed nearly well enough to go out for a walk in the park.
    Rearden sent a letter scolding her for the reckless trip; he had put down on paper the words Sam was surely thinking. But her old friend—old sparring partner, more like it—included money to buy Christmas presents, and for that Fanny could forgive Rearden his cruel remarks. When the envelope arrived, she was sitting in a chair with the remainder of their cash in her lap, trying to imagine how they would make it to the end of the month. The surprise funds briefly brightened the miserable household. Fanny bought toys for the boys and filled the kitchen cupboard.
    Through the bitter cold of January, she kept two fires going in the parlor during the day to keep Hervey warm as he lay