Sarah could see Agnes sitting in her kitchen through the door that stood open to catch whatever air might be stirring, superheated though it might be. Agnes was listlessly rolling out dough for biscuits. On the floor beside the table sat a cradle which she was rocking with one of her slippered feet. Inside the cradle lay the new baby, clad only in a ragged diaper. She looked no healthier than she had the last time Sarah saw her, and she was mewling pitifully. Agnes appeared oblivious to the child’s complaints.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Otto,” Sarah called, startling her.

When Agnes turned to face her, Sarah was startled in turn by how haggard she looked. Like a dishrag that had been thoroughly wrung out. Sweat had dampened the hair around her face, her lips had little color, and her eyes were red-rimmed and dark-circled. Sarah instantly diagnosed anemia and no relief from the postnatal depression. Agnes’s condition was alarming, but the baby was in even more danger.

“Mrs. Brandt?” Agnes said after a moment, as if she needed that time to properly identify her visitor. “Why are you here? Is it Mrs. Gertz’s time?”

Sarah smiled. “Not that I know of. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing. The little one seems unhappy.”

Agnes glanced down at the cradle she still rocked automatically, as if the action of her foot was independent of the rest of her body. Only then did she appear to become aware of the child’s misery.

“She is so good, I hardly remember she is there,” the new mother said, picking the baby up out of the cradle with little tenderness.

Sarah thought it more likely she hardly noticed, but she said nothing, waiting for Agnes to offer the child her breast. Instead, she tried bouncing the baby, as if that would soothe her cries.

Sarah’s fear was a tight ball in her stomach, but she tried not to show it. In her fragile state, Agnes probably wouldn’t be able to tolerate any perceived criticism of her mothering. Making her feel attacked would only harden her against the child. “She might be hungry,” Sarah suggested mildly.

The baby was rooting frantically, digging her face fruitlessly into the bodice of her mother’s dress, looking for milk. “I do not have time now. I have to finish supper,” Agnes said, laying the babe back in the cradle. “Lars will be angry if his supper is not ready when he comes home.”

The child’s little face was pinched and red, but she appeared too weak to cry any harder than the small, pitiful sounds she was making. Sarah knew what was happening. The baby wasn’t getting enough attention or sustenance, and she would die. Not today or tomorrow, but eventually. She wouldn’t grow, wouldn’t fatten, would shrivel and grow sickly and die. Sarah had seen it happen often enough. Too many unwanted babies seemed to recognize their fate and choose oblivion to further suffering. Some might say they were better off dead than alive in a world that didn’t want them, but not Sarah. Sarah hated death. Too many tiny lives had ended from injury and disease already. In the city, one in every three infants died from any number of reasons. Sarah never surrendered those in her care easily, and she wasn’t going to stand by helplessly and allow this one to go for no good reason at all.

“I can keep an eye on the other children and finish making those biscuits while you take the baby into the front room and nurse her. I’m prescribing some rest and relaxation for you.” She smiled with what she hoped looked like kindness, and prayed Agnes wouldn’t sense her desperation.

But Agnes was far too withdrawn into her own anguish even to notice Sarah’s expression, much less to divine her intentions. For a long moment she simply stared at the half-flattened dough ball sitting on the table in front of her, as if she were trying to remember what she had been doing with it.

“Lars will be angry,” she repeated. “He wants his supper waiting when he comes home.”

“He won’t like listening to a crying baby, either,” Sarah said. “I can roll out biscuits as well as you.”

That might be a lie, but Sarah felt no guilt in telling it. Instead she waited patiently while Agnes considered the possible ramifications and the baby continued to whimper. Finally, Agnes pulled herself to her feet. Her faded house-dress hung on her, and Sarah was amazed at how quickly she had lost the extra weight from her pregnancy. In fact, she was too thin, as if she were starving herself as well as the child.

Sarah was so concerned about Agnes’s weight loss that she almost didn’t notice the way she clutched at her side when she rose, as if she felt a pain there.

“Are you all right?” Sarah asked, automatically reaching to help her.

Agnes recoiled, cringing as if in fear of a blow, but then seemed to catch herself. She straightened, pride overcoming her obvious discomfort. “I am fine.”

“Your side hurts,” Sarah said, mentally nmning through a list of possible complications from the pregnancy. She couldn’t think of anything offhand that would cause pain up high on Agnes’s side, though. “I’d be happy to examine you and see if-”

“It is nothing,” Agnes insisted. “Just a bruise. I… I fall out of bed. Ja, I fall out of the bed. In the night. It was foolish. Like a little child. I have the bad dreams still. About Gerda.”

Sarah nodded. She sometimes had dreams about her dead sister, too, even though Maggie had been gone for more than a decade. Maggie, who had died bringing a child into the world. Maggie who had taught Sarah to hate death with a vengeance and fight it at every turn.

“Go on now and lie down. Feed the baby and get a little rest. I’ll get the biscuits in the oven for you.”

Agnes’s expression was heartbreakingly pitiful as she struggled with emotions Sarah couldn’t begin to understand. Finally, she said, “I cannot pay you.”

“I don’t charge people for doing them a favor,” Sarah replied gently. “Please get some rest. If you get sick after having a baby that I delivered, it will hurt my reputation,” she added with a small smile.

Agnes didn’t appreciate Sarah’s attempt at humor, but she allowed Sarah to pick the baby up and place her in her arms.

“I forgot to ask what you’d named her,” Sarah said.

Agnes glanced down at the child, as if she needed to remind herself. “Marta,” she said after a moment. “After Lars’s mother. I wanted to call her Gerda, but-” Her voice broke, and Sarah was afraid she would collapse if she didn’t get into bed soon.

With professional efficiency, Sarah guided her patient to her unmade bed and tucked her into it, making sure the baby was suckling properly before leaving them. She checked on the other two children, who were still playing so quietly Sarah found it disturbing. They stared at her with large, wary eyes when she told them their mother was resting, but they didn’t make a sound. She remembered Malloy’s silent son and wondered for a moment… But then she recalled hearing them speak on earlier visits and realized that they were most likely simply cowed by things they couldn’t understand.

Sarah made short work of the biscuits. She was afraid she’d added too much flour to the dough, but she hated when it stuck to the rolling pin. She hated everything about dough, in fact. It was either sticky and messy or powdery and messy. She cut the biscuits with the top of a drinking glass, found a sheet of tin to bake them on, and stuck them in the oven. By then her clothes were damp and her face running with sweat. All that work, and she still hadn’t so much as asked Agnes a single question about her sister.

She was just cleaning up the last of the flour from the kitchen table when she heard footsteps on the stairs and cries of, “Papa! Papa!” Lars Otto must be home, and he’d be annoyed because his supper wasn’t ready. He’d probably be even more annoyed to find Sarah there. She steeled herself to face him.