Pearl was a good woman. Almost in defiance of Aubrey’s fears, she found means of calming her heart when weighed down with such terrible knowledge. 

In church, her prayers for poor dead Shackley and the women of the vampire farm came with such fervor that she was liable to sprout wings and a halo at any moment. She doted on Aubrey and father at every opportunity— though such a thing was rare. Love, to her father, was wordless, a bowed head and attentive listening. Aubrey was much the same: he wanted Pearl to be a woman, caring but never overbearing. Thus, Pearl was reduced to straightening slippers and adding extra sugar to tea.

Pearl was a good woman— the perfect woman, to some. Because of this, and only this, did she not cry out, tear up the envelope and scatter it into pieces all over the lawn when she received an invitation to tea from one Ianthe Zannouli.

March 2nd, 1821

Boston, Massachusetts

Dear Miss Zannouli. I am honored by the invitation, especially when we are only so mildly acquainted. Despite my busy schedule, I would be esteemed to join you for afternoon tea at the —— House at 2 o’clock this Monday, March 5th.

Respectfully, Pearl Spice

The inn shared the same character as its resident. At once, when Pearl had been let off the curb, she felt as if she had been dropped into a dark well, swarming with little imps. She had been expecting a fine public house, something denoting Zannouli’s flagrant wealth. Instead, she found a rowdy place that she never should have entered unchaperoned. The tavern was filled with men despite the early hour, the air thick with smoke and dirt.

In her plain gown, clutching her purse against her waist, she inquired about Zannouli to the innkeeper. She was sent upstairs; there were eyes that roved about her as she ascended the wooden steps, hand hoisting up her skirt.

Upon knocking, the door was opened swiftly. It was the man that had lit Zannouli’s cigar, the night of the party. He was even larger up close— Pearl had hardly thought it possible. She craned her neck in order to view his face.

Oh, not another one! was her first thought.

Pearl remarked upon the fullness of the pale man’s lips; his soft, smooth features that rested above his plump neck. This servant’s features were awash in ambiguity, same as his mistress.

“Come in, come in!” called Zannouli.

Pearl pushed her misgivings to the back of her mind, where all distasteful thoughts went, nodded to the manservant, and obeyed the woman’s call.

The room was not so bad as the downstairs led her to expect. It was quite robust, even, with a sitting room and the bed separated by another door. The walls were whitewashed, the hearth was merry, with a round rug on the floor and prints hanging on the walls. The problem rested in Zannouli herself: the whole suite was a dreadful mess. 

Stacks of old newspapers stained with coffee, empty bottles on the nightstand, half-full boxes of scattered cigars. In what must’ve been an attempt to cover the stench, Zannouli had lit several sticks of incense, as if they were in Catholic mass. The corresponding haze made Pearl clutch her head from an immediate headache.

Zannouli lounged with both arms on the back of the couch, her legs crossed. She waved to indicate the seat across from her: a little wooden chair, the tea table between them. Pearl sat down and untied her bonnet with careful hands. She endeavored not to stare.

The Greek wore all black menswear, as she had at their first meeting. A black coat and cossack trousers with a waistcoat of, presumably French, silk. She had evidently not brushed her hair— making the mannish cut of her curls all the more obvious. Who would even dare to chop a woman’s hair like that? Had Zannouli done it herself?

Zannouli grinned at Pearl, who waited resolutely for some comment on her out-of-season striped gown— but nothing of the sort came. The first half of their meeting was remarkably civil.

The manservant cleared the dirty table and brought up their tea. Zannouli rambled about traveling— had Miss Spice done any? Not very much— including trips all across Europe. She spoke of her stay in London, where she’d learned the English tongue, but that she much preferred the wild gib of the States. She wanted next to go out to the territories.

“That would be awfully dangerous, I would think.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry for my safety.”

“But I must!” said Pearl. “A lady such as yourself, traveling alone in a lawless place. Why, you would be robbed blind! Or worse!"

Zannouli found her reaction much amusing. “How much worse?”

Pearl held her tongue; for quite a while, she only nodded along to the rest of Zannouli’s rambling. She struggled not to start with every movement from the Greek or her servant.

Pearl spent so long staring at Zannouli’s face that she could count her beauty marks. Though her features were pointed and her nose long, Zannouli was not quite so ugly as Pearl had first thought. Why, if she knew how to dress herself properly, she might’ve even been beautiful! Pearl, who had always considered herself plain and unappealing, could not wrap her head around it at all. Why toss aside your natural gifts to act in such a ridiculous manner?

Zannouli then mentioned Aubrey, and Pearl straightened up at his name. Zannouli took note.

“You know Mr. Darvell?”

“Why, of course,” said Pearl. “He is my betrothed.”

“Ah!” Zannouli snapped her fingers. “That explains it.”

“How did you not know such a thing? Did he not mention me at all?”

“Oh, he spoke at length about his remarkable fiancée.” Zannouli leaned back in her seat. “I simply hadn’t made the connection.”

Pearl drank her tea to avoid a grimace. “Yes. He and my father work closely together. During his apprenticeship, we fell in love, and with my father’s blessing, will soon be married.”

“How sweet.”

“He’s… very important to me.” Pearl laid a hand to her collarbone.

As Pearl spoke of her dear, most sincere love, Zannouli opened a cigar box. She was bringing the butt up towards a nearby candle when she noted Pearl’s flared nostrils.

“Do you mind?”

“I do, actually.”

Even as Pearl spit out her reply, Zannouli was lighting up. She stuck the thing between her teeth, cradling the hot end. She let out a few puffs and said, “Window.”

Pearl bristled, interpreting the order as for her. Before she could say something unfathomably rude in return, the manservant appeared as if from thin air, bounded across the room, and pulled back the curtains. With the window open, and damp city air overtaking the stuffy room, Pearl was glad to breathe.

After all the talk of travel, Pearl asked Zannouli about her homeland. Zannouli spoke of Greece with the tenderness of a parent speaking of their child. It was so unlike anything Pearl had seen of Zannouli up to that point that it gave her pause.

Zannouli spoke of the coastlines: of the warm ocean that cradled its rocky shores; she spoke of white marble temples, the sensation of hot stones beneath your sandals. Pearl was awash in visions of turquoise waters around emerald isles; of women in pink robes playing lounging in the shade; of olive trees, of agoras and amphitheaters.

Said Pearl, “My father has just come home from a Greek expedition.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I was alone for nearly a year.”

“Most who find my home never wish to leave.”

“Oh, it sounds so!” Pearl agreed. “But, then… why are you here?”

“Well, there is a war going on.” Zannouli flicked her fingers. In a moment, like an extension of her arm, the servant was bringing a glass and pouring his mistress’s liquor.

Pearl had heard tell of the war in the papers— the people of Greece, fighting to free themselves from Turkish tyranny.

“Oh! I am sorry. I did not mean to…”

“Do you drink?” Zannouli tilted the glass in her hand, amber liquid sloshing inside.

“Of course not,” said Pearl, forgetting all about talk of war. “I find it ghastly, you and your liquor— Miss Zannouli, it’s hardly afternoon!”

“No need to protest so loudly.” Zannouli raised the glass to her lips. “We’re alone, here, Spice. I won’t be telling any tales.”

Pearl did not budge.

“Ah…” Zannouli closed her eyes. “I see.”

From her pocket, Pearl withdrew her well-worn pocket bible. She thumbed it open as Zannouli watched with a bemused expression. Pearl could feel the judgment on her, but she paid it no mind.

“If we become further acquainted,” Pearl said, “you simply must come and join my prayer group.”

“Oh?”

“We meet on Monday afternoons.” Pearl stared at her book. “We discuss religious matters, and other such things of spiritual importance, and preach temperance.”

“Do you carry that book with you everywhere?”

I had supposed I would need it. “We believe that fulfillment is found in moderation— some vices are inevitable, yes, as we are all born in sin. But one should strive to better oneself, and not…” She eyed the messy room. “… let them consume you.”

“I now understand why you accepted my invitation,” said Zannouli, dryly. “You like yourself a project.”

“I am only extending my hand,” Pearl said, “nothing more. We would be glad to have you, Miss Zannouli, despite—”

“Myself.”

Pearl could not deny it. She read the verse her finger had fallen upon.

But if I live in the flesh, this is the fruit of my labour: yet what I shall choose I wot not.

Zannouli was not offended, though she had every right to be. She was looking at Pearl with her head cocked. Over her shoulder, standing with back to the wall, was her manservant standing at attention like a cumbersome vase.

Said she, “You preach moderation, but won’t drink yourself?”

“I don’t like it. Not the taste, nor any part of it. The whole thing makes me morbidly anxious. I have heard too many stories of husbands who have had their souls destroyed by the drink. I want nothing to do with it.”

“I can attest.” Zannouli raised her glass. “My soul is in tatters.”

“I did not mean to—”

“Isn’t abstinence the opposite of moderation?” Zannouli said.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“It seems the impulse rules your life in other ways.” Zannouli waved her hand. “Such as, interrupting a social call to preach.”

“Oh, Miss… I’m terribly sorry that I’ve…”

Zannouli waved a hand, silencing Pearl. “I am only speaking intellectually– if you want to defeat vice, would it not be useful to stick your hand in the fire, even once?”

“And then I would have some charred flesh, and nothing to show for it.”

Zannouli, brandishing the end of her cigar, pointed to the door with a crooked wrist. “Why, do you see that over there?”

Pearl turned. In the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Zannouli scurrying a hand over the tea table.

“What are you—?”

Zannouli was in the same position as before, hands folded over her stomach. She was grinning, though, like a boy who had just learned how to tug a girl’s hair.

Pearl looked down at her tea. It was so slightly disturbed that she could’ve been imagining it. “Do you think such a thing is funny, Miss Zannouli?”

“Hysterical.”

“I will not be drinking that.”

The Greek shrugged. “Then don’t.”

Before Pearl could so much as protest, Zannouli swiped Pearl’s cup and dumped it onto the carpet. Pearl gasped and rushed to her feet— but that faithful shadow of Zannouli’s reached the spot first.

“Sit down,” Zannouli said.

“That was— that was…” Pearl sat.

All thoughts of Zannouli as anything but a fiend sent to vex her were banished by the time Aubrey came. Pearl was only grateful to be rid of her. 

When there was a knock on the door, Zannouli paused mid-sentence to pass Pearl a quizzical look.

Pearl smiled. “That would be my beau.”

“Ah,” said Zannouli. “I was under the impression that you would be riding home in my carriage.”

“Oh, Miss Zannouli, I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you like that!” said Pearl. “Come, do not leave him waiting.”

Zannouli leapt from the couch. Pearl thought it odd, considering her laziness in all else. Still, Pearl followed. By the time she came up behind Zannouli, wearing her shawl and bonnet, Aubrey and the Greek were engaged in lively conversation. Zannouli laid a hand on the small of Pearl’s back.

“Oh, and there she is now! Ready to go, Miss Spice?”

Aubrey said, “Now, now, there is no need to be so hasty! Is this the way to treat your friends? You promised me a taste of one of your foreign cigars.”

Something unpleasant flashed across Zannouli’s face, and the hand on Pearl tensed— so fast, Pearl could be convinced that she had imagined it.

“Come in, then.” Zannouli ushered Aubrey further into the room with a gracious smile. “Make yourself at home.”

Pearl did not want this— Pearl wanted to leave, not to indulge Zannouli and her vices further. She tried to catch Aubrey’s eye, but all his attention was turned to the Greek. His eyes followed Zannouli’s hands as she lifted her box of cigars from the tea table. It was in the handing off that everything went wrong.

Zannouli’s servant had moved. He was hard to miss, but even Pearl only dimly caught sight of him. He was silent as a snake, and made no indication that he had even seen Aubrey. But Aubrey chanced to look up— and upon doing so, gasped. The cigar dropped to the floor.

“Why! Is that the way to treat your hard-fought gifts, Mr. Darvell? Those devils cost me a pretty—”

Aubrey reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out a gun.

The terror struck Pearl at once: she stumbled back, stifling a gasp behind her gloves. 

Aubrey had become a different man in a snap; with his white face trained upon Zannouli, hand on the barrel of the gun, pointing it at the Greek’s heart!

“Whoa!” Zannouli raised both hands in the air. “Careful where you wave that thing!”

Aubrey did not address Zannouli. He addressed her servant. “You—! My God, man, what are you doing here? We took you for dead!”

Pearl stumbled back into the tea table. “D-darling?”

“Mr. Darvell,” said Zannouli, “what are you doing?”

“Do not take me for a fool!” Aubrey turned the full force of his fury towards Zannouli. “You foul creature— did you think I could not recognize the man behind you?”

“What man?”

Pearl’s stomach dropped. Now was not the time for jokes, Miss Zannouli!

“Your puppet,” Aubrey spat.

“My man, you’ve gone mad! What are you talking about?”

Yes, what was he talking about? Pearl could not move. She had to stop him, had to calm Aubrey before he hurt someone, or himself! How had she not noticed it before? His nerves must’ve been fraying, and Pearl had overlooked some small and deadly trigger. It was all Pearl’s fault.

In the midst of her panic, Zannouli caught Pearl’s eye, and gave the barest of nods.

“Mr. Darvell…” Zannouli lowered her arms, quite slowly and calmly. “You must be mistaken. Please, calm yourself and we can clear up this misunderstanding together, as men—”

“Release him or I kill you now.”

“In front of your fiancée?”

That gave Aubrey pause. His head whipped around, as if noticing Pearl for the first time. Zannouli pressed her advantage.

“This is no conversation to have with a lady,” said Zannouli. “We should let her outside.”

Aubrey’s hand shook upon his gun. “No… no, I won’t let you escape…”

“I am not keen on the alternative.”

“Do not toy with me!” Aubrey’s voice was dark. “I know what you are. What are you here for? Why do you intend to do?”

“I will tell all,” Zannouli said, “alone. She’s frightened. You are scaring her, Mr. Darvell.”

Aubrey did not lower his gun. “Pearl, darling. Leave us alone.”

Oh, how could Pearl leave Aubrey like that? But her tongue was jelly, and when the servant came to retrieve her fallen shawl, and bring her out of doors, she was mute and docile.

Zannouli folded her hands behind her back, and gave a pointed look Aubrey’s way. He lowered the gun; the Greek’s stare remained until he tucked it back from whence it came.

“You know…” Zannouli said to Aubrey, “you really do have a fine woman here. If you leave her out in the open long enough, something will snatch her up.”

“Something?”

“Like a hawk, perhaps.” Zannouli shrugged. “If in a windy field.”

“I suggest you watch your tongue before I cut it out.”

“And I suggest you be civil and don’t attempt any more daylight murders,” Zannouli said. “Though I know you’re fond of them.”

Pearl was almost out the door when Aubrey cleared the space between the two of them and put his fist through Zannouli’s teeth.

The wind was rushing through the branches. Pearl wrinkled her nose. A gentle hand, soft as a knitted blanket, touched her shoulder.

She opened her eyes, and at once had a terrible fright. Where she had anticipated Aubrey’s face, the square face of Zannouli’s servant loomed.

“Oh…” Pearl groaned, and clutched her head. They were lying in the grass, behind the tavern, far from prying eyes. There was an apple tree above her, teeming with life in the dusky pink of the sunset. Pearl sat up, the servant holding her steady. “I fainted?”

The servant nodded.

“Oh, how embarrassing!” Pearl covered her face. “All I can recall is… Aubrey, and how he— wait!”

She grabbed the man’s shoulders. “Where is Aubrey? Or Miss Zannouli? Are they quite alright?”

The servant was calm. “They are having a civil discussion in Miss Zannouli’s room. They thought the fresh air would do you good.”

“I must apologize on behalf of my fiancé,” said Pearl. “I have no idea what could have gotten into him. Oh, do you suppose Miss Zannouli will forgive us?”

He nodded stiffly.

Then, they waited in mutual silence for their companions to return. Pearl laid back against the trunk of the tree, but shivered against the chilled air. Without words, the massive servant removed his brown overcoat and draped it over her shoulders.

He had the posture of a well-trained soldier. Pearl supposed it to be a trick of the evening light, or a result of an oddly cut shirt— his chest swelled in such a way that suggested breasts underneath the fabric.

Pearl pulled the coat close around her shoulders.

When at last Aubrey came to meet them, the sky was nearly black. He approached with a wide, jaunty step, and doffed his hat to the servant as Pearl rushed into his arms. Her worry overcame her propriety. She clasped his cheeks between her palms, searching his face for any sign of harm.

“Darling! Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, yes!” Aubrey laughed. “That Zannouli is an extraordinary fellow, and– I should suspect– a good friend. She’s forgiven me, and her wounds shall heal in no time.”

He took her by the arm, and together they headed towards the street.

“Do you have any idea how ashamed I feel?” Pearl’s voice quivered. “What in heaven’s name came over you, to make you act so– so beastly?”

“It was all just a silly misunderstanding!” Aubrey laughed. “You know me. A leaf in the wind.”

“You drew a gun on a woman– you beat her– over a misunderstanding?”

“It was only a punch.” Aubrey nodded. “But she’s taken no offense to it. That Zannouli is an extraordinary fellow and–”

Aubrey stepped off the curb. Pearl pulled him back out of the way of an oncoming carriage.

“Darling!”

He stumbled backwards, and it was only Pearl laying a hand on the small of his back that kept him from splitting his skull against the ground. His features were dazed, sluggish to react to his surroundings.

Pearl frowned. “Have you been drinking again?”

“No, I—” Aubrey straightened himself upright. “Perhaps.”

“Darling, are you quite sure that you are alright?” Tears pricked in Pearl’s eyes. “You must be exhausted— oh, you’ve been staying up all night working on Father’s book, haven’t you?”

“Now, as I was saying…” Aubrey readjusted his hat, and it was as if he were repairing his whole self. He smiled his dazzling smile and drew Pearl closer. “That Zannouli is an ext–”

That night, Pearl sat in her room, hand on her silver cross. Her room smelled of garlic— a strange scent that, by now, held no unpleasantness. It was an evocation of home, a scent of safety. Her father and Aubrey were down the hall, transcribing notes from the expedition; piles and piles of such notes now lined the study and library, enough so that, Pearl suspected, Father would soon pen a travelogue.

After completion of her nightly prayers, she checked the window latch, blew out her candle, and sank gratefully into her covers. She had not quite recovered from the fright of the earlier day. For a long while she lay on her stomach, long braid snaking down her back, her cheek sunk down into the pillow. She yearned for sleep— but the Sandman, fae creature that he was, would only steal her away when she least expected it.

She sank through her covers and into a dream. She was a small girl again: her tugging hands hardly reached Father’s knee. They were in the churchyard, two figures amongst a foggy landscape of crooked headstones. In her arms Pearl carried a small black kitten; it was ragged and mewling, having been abandoned by its family for its being too small. Pearl begged Father to allow her to bring it home and nurse it to health. Father agreed, with the condition that she not get too attached, for something so sickly and young is liable to die at any moment.

Pearl lived what seemed like a lifetime with that kitten: stroking its soft fur, letting it nestle into the deep covers of her bed. She fed it scraps of meat and let it tangle itself up in her yarn. She loved it dearly, more than anything in the world. Sometimes, when she was cross-legged on the floor, playing chase, Father would stop and view her from the other room. He was nearly as tall as the ceiling; his shadow filled the wall, swallowed the hearth.

“I told you,” Father said, “not to name it.”

“I haven’t, Father!”

“Names are powerful. Once you name something, it becomes yours.”

“It is not mine.”

“And whose shall it be, then?”

“It will not belong to anyone. It shall be its own cat, self-determined as the best of men.”

“And if it dies?”

“Then I shall die.”

“And when it leaves you?”

“That piece of me will go with it.”

A searing light cut through her eyes; a portal to a fantastical world was slicing itself into her home. She did not yet know she’d been torn from her dream. Precious seconds were wasted in her confusion and fancy. She raised a drowsy hand to shade her eyes as her door was further opened.

Aubrey stood above her bed.

His hands hung straight at his sides, and his face, carved like a Michaelangelo from the sharp light, rested slack. Pale eyes bulged, his mouth hung open, his whole visage strange and still.

“Darling?”

His fat tongue twitched behind his teeth.

“Is Father finally asleep?” Pearl pulled herself up against the headboard. When Aubrey gave no answer, she said, “Well? Have you come to kiss me goodnight?”

Finally, Aubrey moved. With an automaton’s grace, he leaned down to set a hand against the back of her head and kiss her on the crown.

“… love you, too.” She smiled.

His wet mouth dragged downwards, like a snail’s trail, to the center of her face. He pushed his lips against hers.

Inside Pearl lived a bird, smashing against the bars of a cage. She obeyed its cries, tingling with excitement from his boldness, and curled her legs underneath her. Her spine lifted straight. With Aubrey’s tongue in her mouth, she could not speak, only wrap her arms around his waist.

Had it only been a kiss, perhaps things would have remained intact.

A cold hand pressed against Pearl’s breast.

Though her face went limp, the probing kiss continued. The frost of that touch leaked into the rest of her body; it killed all passion in its wake, and replaced with it a small, stiffened bead of fear. The candles snuffed out. Aubrey grazed his thumb against her nipple, only thin fabric separating their skins. She wanted him to stop.

He wasn’t going to stop.

“Wh— why…?” Pearl tore away from him. He pursued. Heavy hands pushed away her covers and snuck their way underneath her hem.

“Aubrey!” She snapped her legs closed.

She was pressed against the headboard, squashed into the furthest corner of her four-poster. He was on the bed, his legs straggling her on either side, loosening the fastening on his trousers. Still, he said nothing; the door had fallen back closed. All Pearl could see was the gray outline of her life, in the midst of its ruin.

He fondled her again. Pearl wept. She tried to lean away, to escape, but his strength was greater than hers. She was pinned down. One hand wrenched between her thighs, another massaging her breast. His drooling face was licking at her neck, like a dog’s sloppy kiss.

Pearl leaned as far left as her assailant allowed, and stretched a hand out until she swore that her arm would be torn from its socket. Her fingers curled around the edge of the vase.

She swung.

It connected with the top of his head, and smashed into a cloud of shards: down his back, all over the bedcovers, into her wide eyes.

Aubrey keeled backwards with blood bursting from his brow. Pearl ran.

Time and good sense left her. When she at last became aware of herself again, she was on the street in only her shift and loose curls. It was raining, slicking her already immodest look to her terrified skin; the gauzy fabric stuck to her bruised thighs, and she wished to be struck dead.

Pearl stared out at the square, where oil lamps made yellow circles of light against the cobblestones. There were lights from the buildings, rows and rows of them. There were people out, but they registered only as shadows, yet another shape that fell upon her uncomprehending eyes. She had left some part of herself back in her bed; she was straining to return to it, stumbling like a stabbing victim, no sense of the cold. Carriages tottered by. The occupants, should they have bothered to look out, paid her only a scandalized glance.

That was me! thought she. That was Pearl Spice only days, only hours, only minutes erelong. That was her: living ignorant, unkindly, unsinning from the cushions of a warm carriage. What a fool she had been! It was all too obvious, too late, the spider’s thread on which her happiness hung. 

Oh, if only she could die! If only she could bring herself to move but a few feet further, and dash herself against the wheels of that unfeeling carriage. She would turn the whole street red! Her body would line the gutters, and all these ignoramuses would feel but a fraction of all that she felt now! There was naught a soul left that would care for her. She should die, with the conviction of deepest despair, if only she could— 

“Spice? What the blazes are you doing out here?”

On the sidewalk, ruby-laden hand on the head of her walking stick, stood Ianthe Zannouli. Her servant, indistinguishable from a shadow, held an umbrella over his mistress while he complacently soaked. In the lamplight, she appeared carved from darkness in her mourning garb, red-lined cloak brushing the street.

Pearl burst straight into tears.

At once, she was pulled into Zannouli’s dry cover. The woman’s heavy cloak fell over her shoulders; the frankincense covered the smell of— of her assailant that clung, despite the spring shower. She gasped out an insufficient explanation as Zannouli held her. Pearl buried her face in the woman’s shoulder.

“I don’t understand!” Pearl cried. “I don’t, I don’t. I would’ve… I would’ve gone gladly to bed with him. As his wife.”

Zannouli’s hands held her tightly.

“I was going to marry him! I— I loved him. I did everything I could to be his… I strove to be perfect. I would have been… I would have been his perfect wife…”

“You would.” Zannouli patted Pearl with the flat of her palm.

Pearl looked up into her face. They were so close that Pearl felt the resistance of her breath against Zannouli’s strong, stolid, ambiguous face. She was gazing at Pearl with an earnest expression, her dark curls across her forehead, her black eyes catching Pearl’s attention, demanding it.

“Miss Zannouli…”

“Call me Ianthe.”

“Ianthe, my friend…” Pearl gasped. “What do I do?”

She spoke simply, the horrible truth. “You have to live on.”