Where there was so much misery and pain, Hannah told herself, it was truly the height of self-indulgence to be worried about something as trivial as a marriage proposal.

She spent a good amount of time composing a letter to her stepmother in her head. Elizabeth would know what to do. If she had been here during Hannah’s very odd, very disturbing discussion with her father and uncle, Elizabeth would have taken control and…what? What would she have said?

Here Hannah’s imagination refused to cooperate. A very bad sign indeed.

In the late afternoon of the fifth of January, the richest men in the city evacuated their wives and children by means of Henry Shreve’s steamboat. Julia Savard would not go, but Rachel and Henry were entrusted to the care of Mrs. Livingston, who left New Orleans with her mother and daughter.

Jennet came back to stay with the Savards, and brought the babies with her, much to Clémentine’s satisfaction. To Hannah’s relief Jennet seemed to have forgot entirely about Ben Savard, or at least, she had been warned away from the subject by Luke or more likely, to Hannah’s mind, her father-in-law.

The mood in the city was more somber by the hour, and by the evening of the seventh, Hannah had begun to believe the rumors about the coming battle. She left the clinic and climbed the stairs to Ben’s apartment, trying not to hope that she would see him this evening. It had been almost two days, and she wanted the opportunity to talk to him before he went into battle. She knew too much of the possibilities to pretend to herself that there was no danger.

No book could hold her attention, and so she lay sleepless, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the sound of artillery fire in the distance.

At first she didn’t hear the scratching at the door. The people who sought her out here were more likely to knock or call out, and so she went to answer the door already alert and uncertain.

Her visitor was a stranger, a young woman who had painted her face in a manner that left no question as to her chosen work. She wore a pink-and-brown paisley shawl over a low-cut gown, and what was either a fake mole on one breast or the beginning of a fearsome cancer.

And her brow creased in confusion and no small amount of unhappiness at the sight of Hannah. She said, “Where’s Ben?”

Hannah’s voice came rough with sleeplessness. “On patrol, with his company.”

“I have a letter for him.”

Hannah stepped aside. “Would you like to wait?”

And then had to bite hard on the lining of her cheek to keep from laughing at the look on the younger woman’s face. Affront, surprise, uneasiness.

“I’ve got to get back,” she said. And, with sudden energy: “I know you. I’ve seen you before.”

“Is that so?” Hannah managed a small smile. “Have you come to the clinic to be vaccinated?”

This suggestion was greeted with a hoot of laughter. “As if I’d let the likes of you stick me with a needle full of cow piss.”

There was a moment’s silence in which the unapologetic examination of Hannah’s face continued. She was about to protest when the woman’s eyes widened.

“I know,” she said, her tone triumphant. “You was the one who spent a week in Girl’s room, sick with the marsh fever. I saw you once or twice when I passed by. You look healthy enough now.”

“I am healthy now,” Hannah said, disoriented. “Who is it who sent you?”

“My mistress,” said the girl. “Mme. Soileau. She’s got a house on the other side of town.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “You don’t remember that week at all? My face don’t strike you familiar? I’m Nicole.”

“I don’t recall you,” Hannah said. “But I remember Girl.”

The woman’s expression sobered. “I miss Girl. The mistress sold her when she got sick.”

“I know that,” Hannah said. She lifted her chin in the direction of the clinic. “She died here, of an obstruction in her bowel.”

“Is that so?” Nicole had gone pale beneath her rouge. “Could be she’s better off. You hear stories about the planters who buy their slaves from the auction houses.”

I’ve heard those stories, too, Hannah thought, but kept it to herself.

“You said you have a letter—”

“For Ben. I’m supposed to give it to him direct, but she didn’t say nothing about waiting half the night.”

“I can give it to him,” Hannah offered.

The girl gave an uneasy and doubtful shrug. “It’s important, the mistress says. You won’t read it?”

“I won’t read it.” And then, against her better judgment: “How is it Ben knows your mistress?”

“Oh, everybody knows Mme. Soileau,” Nicole said. “Every man, at least.” And she winked. She handed Hannah the letter, heavy paper folded and secured with a solid wax seal.

“I’m trusting you, now,” she said.

“I will deliver it,” said Hannah. “You can depend upon it.”

Nicole’s perfume was still hanging in the air when Ben came through the door a half hour later, just as the cathedral bells were chiming eight o’clock. Hannah had lit candles and stoked the fire and she sat in the best chair near the hearth, an unread book in her lap and, on top of the book, the letter.

Hannah stayed just where she was while he took off his weapons and set them carefully aside. Then he came to her directly and leaning over, kissed her on the forehead.