“I don’t know what to say,” Peter began. Her hair was damp and pressed to her forehead, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. “We all loved her.”

“Thank you, Peter.” Her words were flat, without emotion. “Is it true about Alicia?”

He nodded.

“What are you going to do with her?”

“I don’t know at this point. She’s in the stockade.”

Sara didn’t say anything; she didn’t have to. Her face said it all. We trusted her; now look.

“How’s Amy?” Peter asked.

Sara heaved a sigh. “You can see for yourself. I’m a little out of my depth here, but as far as I can tell, she’s fine. Fine as in human. A little malnourished, and she’s very weak, but the fever’s gone. If you brought her in here and didn’t tell me who she was, I’d say she was a perfectly healthy woman in her mid-twenties who’d just come off a bad bout of the flu. Somebody please explain this to me.”

As compactly as he could, Peter related the story: the Bergensfjord, Greer’s vision, Amy’s transformation.

“What are you going to do?” Sara said.

“I’m working on it.”

Sara seemed dazed; the information had begun to sink in. “I guess maybe I owe Michael an apology. Funny to think about that at a time like this.”

“There’s a meeting in my office at oh-seven-thirty. I need you there.”

“Why me?”

There were lots of reasons; he went with the simplest. “Because you’ve been part of this from the beginning.”

“And now part of the end,” Sara said grimly.

“Let’s hope not.”

She fell silent, then said, “A woman came into the hospital yesterday in labor. Early stages, we might have just sent her home, but she and her husband were there when the horn went off. Along about three A.M. she decides to have her baby. A baby, in the middle of all this.” Sara looked at Peter squarely. “Know what I wanted to tell her?”

He shook his head.

“Don’t.”

—

The bedroom door was ajar; Peter paused at the threshold. The drapes were shut, bathing the room in a thin, yellowish light. Amy was turned on her side—eyes closed, face relaxed, one arm tucked beneath the pillow. He was about to retreat when her eyes fluttered open.

“Hey.” Her voice was very soft.

“It’s okay, go back to sleep. I just wanted to check on you.”

“No, stay.” She cast her eyes groggily around the room. “What time is it?”

“I’m not sure. Early.”

“Sara was here.”

“I know. I saw her leave. How are you feeling?”

She frowned pensively. “I don’t…know.” Then, eyes widening as if the idea surprised her: “Hungry?”

Such an ordinary want; Peter nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

In the kitchen he lit the kerosene stove—he hadn’t used it in months—then went outside to tell the soldiers what he needed. While he waited, he washed up; by the time they returned, carrying a small basket, the fire was ready to go. Buttermilk, eggs, a potato, a loaf of dense, dark bread, and mixed-berry jam in a jar sealed with wax. He set to work, happy to have this small chore to take his mind from other things. In a cast-iron pan he fried the potatoes and then the eggs; the bread he cut into thick slices and smeared with jam. How long since he’d cooked a meal for another person? Probably for Caleb, as a boy. Years ago.

He arranged Amy’s breakfast on a tray, added a glass of buttermilk, and carried it all to the bedroom. He’d wondered if she’d fall asleep again in his absence; instead he found her alert and sitting up. She had pulled the drapes aside; evidently the light had ceased to trouble her. A smile blossomed at the sight of him, standing in the doorway like a waiter with his tray.

“Wow,” she said.

Peter placed the tray on her lap. “I’m not much of a cook.”

Amy was staring at the food as if she were a prisoner released from years in jail. “I don’t even know where to start. The potatoes? The bread?” She smiled decisively. “No, the milk.”

She drained the glass and set to work on the rest, jabbing the food with her fork like a field hand.

Peter dragged a chair to the bedside. “Maybe you should slow down.”

She glanced up, speaking around a mouthful of eggs. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

He was famished but enjoyed watching her. “I’ll get something later.”

Peter went to the kitchen to refill her glass; by the time he returned, her plate was empty. He handed her the buttermilk and watched her polish it off. A healthy color had flowed back into her cheeks.

“Come sit by me,” she said.

Peter cleared her tray and perched on the edge of the bed. Amy slipped her hand into his. “I’ve missed you,” she said.

It felt so unreal, to be sitting here, talking to her. “I’m sorry I got old.”

“Oh, I think I’ve got you beat there.”

He almost laughed. There was so much he wanted to say, to tell her. She looked just as she did in his dreams; the short hair was the only difference. Her eyes, the warmth of her smile, the sound of her voice—all were the same.

“What was it like, in the ship?”

She dropped her face; her thumb moved gently over the top of his hand. “Lonely. Strange. But Lucius took care of me.” She looked at him again. “I’m sorry, Peter. You couldn’t know.”