business trips. I wondered about those. I just didn’t have the heart to say anything.”
Julia swallowed. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
“I should have guessed. A man doesn’t ask for a divorce right out of the blue.”
“Good night, Vicky.”
“Hey. Hey, are you okay?”
“I just don’t want to talk.” Julia hung up.
For a long time, she sat motionless. Above her head, the firefly kept circling, desperately searching for a way out of its prison. Eventually it would exhaust itself. Trapped here without food, without water, it would die in this room.
She climbed up onto the mattress. As the firefly darted closer, she caught it in her hands. Palms cupped around the insect, she walked barefoot to the kitchen and opened the back door. There, on the porch, she released the firefly. It fluttered away into the darkness, its light no longer winking, escape its only objective.
Did it know she’d saved its life? One puny thing she was capable of.
She lingered on the porch, breathing in gulps of night air, unable to bear the thought of returning to that hot little bedroom.
Richard was getting married.
Her breath caught in her throat, spilled out in a sob. She gripped the porch railing and felt splinters prick her fingers.
And I’m the last to find out.
Staring into the night, she thought of the bones that had been buried just a few dozen yards away. A forgotten woman, her name lost to the centuries. She thought of cold earth pressing down as winter snows swirled above, of seasons cycling, the decades passing, while flesh rotted and worms feasted. I’m like you, another forgotten woman, she thought.
And I don’t even know who you are.
Two
November 1830
D EATH ARRIVED with the sweet tinkling of bells.
Rose Connolly had come to dread the sound, for she’d heard it too many times already as she sat beside her sister’s hospital bed, dabbing Aurnia’s forehead, holding her hand and offering her sips of water. Every day those cursed bells, rung by the acolyte, heralded the priest’s arrival on the ward to deliver the sacrament and administer the ritual of extreme unction. Though only seventeen years old, Rose had seen many lifetimes’ worth of tragedy these last five days. On Sunday, Nora had died, three days after her wee babe was born. On Monday, it was the brown-haired lass at the far end of the ward, who’d succumbed so soon after giving birth that there’d been no chance to learn her name, not with the family weeping and the newborn baby howling like a scalded cat and the busy coffin maker hammering in the courtyard. On Tuesday, after four days of feverish agonies following the birth of a son, Rebecca had mercifully succumbed, but only after Rose had been forced to endure the stench of the putrid discharges crusting the sheets and oozing from between the girl’s legs. The whole ward smelled of sweat and fevers and purulence. Late at night, when the groans of dying souls echoed through the corridors, Rose would startle awake from exhausted slumber to find reality more frightful than her nightmares. Only when she stepped outside into the hospital courtyard, and breathed in deeply of the cold mist, could she escape the foul air of the ward.
But always, she had to return to the horrors. To her sister.
“The bells again,” Aurnia whispered, sunken eyelids flickering. “Which poor soul is it this time?”
Rose glanced down the lying-in ward, to where a curtain had been hastily drawn around one of the beds. Moments ago, she had seen Nurse Mary Robinson set out the small table and lay out the candles and crucifix. Although she couldn’t see the priest, she heard him murmuring behind that curtain, and could smell the burning candle wax.
“Through the great goodness of His mercy, may God pardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed…”
“Who?” Aurnia asked again. In her agitation, she struggled to sit up, to see over the row of beds.
“I fear it’s Bernadette,” said
Julia swallowed. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
“I should have guessed. A man doesn’t ask for a divorce right out of the blue.”
“Good night, Vicky.”
“Hey. Hey, are you okay?”
“I just don’t want to talk.” Julia hung up.
For a long time, she sat motionless. Above her head, the firefly kept circling, desperately searching for a way out of its prison. Eventually it would exhaust itself. Trapped here without food, without water, it would die in this room.
She climbed up onto the mattress. As the firefly darted closer, she caught it in her hands. Palms cupped around the insect, she walked barefoot to the kitchen and opened the back door. There, on the porch, she released the firefly. It fluttered away into the darkness, its light no longer winking, escape its only objective.
Did it know she’d saved its life? One puny thing she was capable of.
She lingered on the porch, breathing in gulps of night air, unable to bear the thought of returning to that hot little bedroom.
Richard was getting married.
Her breath caught in her throat, spilled out in a sob. She gripped the porch railing and felt splinters prick her fingers.
And I’m the last to find out.
Staring into the night, she thought of the bones that had been buried just a few dozen yards away. A forgotten woman, her name lost to the centuries. She thought of cold earth pressing down as winter snows swirled above, of seasons cycling, the decades passing, while flesh rotted and worms feasted. I’m like you, another forgotten woman, she thought.
And I don’t even know who you are.
Two
November 1830
D EATH ARRIVED with the sweet tinkling of bells.
Rose Connolly had come to dread the sound, for she’d heard it too many times already as she sat beside her sister’s hospital bed, dabbing Aurnia’s forehead, holding her hand and offering her sips of water. Every day those cursed bells, rung by the acolyte, heralded the priest’s arrival on the ward to deliver the sacrament and administer the ritual of extreme unction. Though only seventeen years old, Rose had seen many lifetimes’ worth of tragedy these last five days. On Sunday, Nora had died, three days after her wee babe was born. On Monday, it was the brown-haired lass at the far end of the ward, who’d succumbed so soon after giving birth that there’d been no chance to learn her name, not with the family weeping and the newborn baby howling like a scalded cat and the busy coffin maker hammering in the courtyard. On Tuesday, after four days of feverish agonies following the birth of a son, Rebecca had mercifully succumbed, but only after Rose had been forced to endure the stench of the putrid discharges crusting the sheets and oozing from between the girl’s legs. The whole ward smelled of sweat and fevers and purulence. Late at night, when the groans of dying souls echoed through the corridors, Rose would startle awake from exhausted slumber to find reality more frightful than her nightmares. Only when she stepped outside into the hospital courtyard, and breathed in deeply of the cold mist, could she escape the foul air of the ward.
But always, she had to return to the horrors. To her sister.
“The bells again,” Aurnia whispered, sunken eyelids flickering. “Which poor soul is it this time?”
Rose glanced down the lying-in ward, to where a curtain had been hastily drawn around one of the beds. Moments ago, she had seen Nurse Mary Robinson set out the small table and lay out the candles and crucifix. Although she couldn’t see the priest, she heard him murmuring behind that curtain, and could smell the burning candle wax.
“Through the great goodness of His mercy, may God pardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed…”
“Who?” Aurnia asked again. In her agitation, she struggled to sit up, to see over the row of beds.
“I fear it’s Bernadette,” said
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