His tone was oddly kind. Stand up now, would you?

I dragged myself to my feet; I was daubed with blood from bib to hem. I let go of Bridie’s hand and set it down on her ribs.

Groyne’s face caved in. Ah, not the Sweeney girl.

Mary O’Rahilly was sobbing behind me.

The orderly was gone without another word.

I began with Bridie’s fingers. I wiped them clean, then lavished balm on the irritated red skin on the backs. Traced the raised circle left by ringworm—the faint marking of an ancient fort on a hill. I moved the cloth down her arms, the smooth one and the rippling, burnt one.

A pot of soup, she’d told me on the first day.

How naïve of me to have assumed that it was an accident. Much more likely that at some point in Bridie’s penitential upbringing, an adult had thrown scalding soup at her.

In came Dr. MacAuliffe.

I barely said a word.

He listened for a nonexistent pulse. He lifted Bridie’s right eyelid and shone his torch in to confirm that the pupil didn’t contract.

It was the faulty paperwork that threw him. You’re telling me she was never actually admitted to this hospital?

I said, She worked here for three days. Tirelessly. For nothing.

It must have been my tone that shut MacAuliffe up. Under Cause of death, he scribbled, Influenza.

Then he was gone and I carried on.

There were few stretches of Bridie’s body left unmarked; preparing it for burial was like finding chapter after chapter of a horrifying book. When I peeled off her second stocking, I noticed a toe at an odd angle—an old break left unset. On her ribs, snaking around from her back, an ugly red line; it had healed in the end, as most things did. I bent down and kissed the scar.

From her cot, Mary O’Rahilly spoke up shakily. Nurse Power, can I please go home? This place—

It was a healthy instinct, the desire to grab her baby and escape. I said, without turning my head, Just a few more days, Mrs. O’Rahilly.

I found a starched nightdress to put on Bridie. Laid her limbs straight, put her hands together, interlocked her fingers.

Groyne and O’Shea came in with the stretcher and set it along the empty middle bed.

I couldn’t look as they lifted Bridie onto it. I couldn’t not look.

I got a clean sheet and covered her up.

Groyne put his hand on my shoulder, making me twitch. We’ll take care of her now, Nurse Power.

Silence filled up the ward again once they were gone.

At some point Barnabas started crying. The noise abated. I looked and saw that Mary O’Rahilly was rocking him in her arms, shushing him.

When Sister Luke came in, I stared, because I didn’t know what she was doing here so early. But the square of window was quite dark, and my watch, inexplicably, said nine o’clock.

Mary O’Rahilly was still holding Barnabas against her chest.

The nun sighed. Well, I heard about poor Sweeney. Such a shock! Truly, we know not the day nor the hour.

My rage was stuck in my throat.

The night nurse hung up her cloak; adjusted her veil and mask; bound on an apron. I see the little botch is hanging on?

She took Barnabas from Mary O’Rahilly and put him in the crib as if tidying up.

I managed to get up, then; I took one step and then another.

I stared down at the bloom of Barnabas’s jumbled upper lip. It came to me that it was a sign, a seal set on this boy. I said, There’s nothing wrong with him.

Above the mask, Sister Luke’s brow arched sceptically.

A wild idea was flowering. I thought to myself, If Tim—

No, it wouldn’t be fair to my brother. I’d no right.

But I pressed on regardless.

I told the nun, I’m going home tonight.

Her nod was cursory; she thought I meant just to sleep.

I spelled it out: I’m taking my annual leave.

Ah, no, I’m afraid we’re all very much needed here for the duration, Nurse Power.

I untied my apron and tossed it in the basket. I said, If it’s a sacking matter, then let them replace me.

Your job’s not to bear the babies, Bridie had told me, it’s to save them.

Well, maybe save just one. For Bridie. I had this peculiar conviction that she’d want me to keep Barnabas White out of the pipe.

Before I had time to lose my nerve, I got an old Gladstone bag from the back of the press and filled it with basic supplies: nappies and pins, baby clothes, two of the special bottles with wide teats, the big jar of infant food. That maddeningly popular song went round in my head: Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag.

Sister Luke was studying me. Finally she asked, What do you think you’re doing?

I’m bringing the baby with me.

I put an outdoor dress over Barnabas’s other layers.

The nun clucked her tongue. There’s no need for that—arrangements will have been made to take him over to the mother-and-baby home.

I swaddled Barnabas in two small blankets and pulled down a woolen hat almost to his eyes.

I went to put on my own coat and hat, and when I turned back the nun was standing in the way. Nurse Power, this infant isn’t yours for the taking.

Well, he doesn’t seem to be anybody else’s, does he?

Do you mean to say you’re putting yourself forward as a foster mother for him?

I winced. I said, I won’t be asking for pay.

What would you be after, then?

I reminded myself that Sister Luke meant well; she thought her duty was to protect this human scrap from all hazards, including me.

Just to mind him, I said. Raise him as my own.

She plucked at her mask as if itched. You’re sounding overtired and distraught—quite understandable after the day you’ve had.

If she said Bridie’s name, I was going to fall apart.

We’re all tired, Sister. I’m going home to sleep now, and Barnabas White is coming with me.

Sister Luke sighed. We celibates tend to suffer the odd flare-up of maternal instinct. But a baby’s not a plaything. What about your work here?

I said, I have a brother who’ll help.

(How dared I make that claim on Tim’s behalf?)

I’ll come back to work after my week’s leave, I promised rashly. Now let me by.

The night nurse drew herself up. You’ll need to speak to Father Xavier, as he’s the acting chaplain. Any Catholic born in this hospital comes under his aegis.

I found myself wondering who’d put us all in the hands of these old men in the first place. Isn’t he out at a funeral?

He’s back now—up on Maternity.

Through my teeth I said, Very well.

Reluctantly, I set Barnabas on his back in the crib, looking muffled up enough for the Arctic. I grabbed his chart and headed out the door to find the priest.

The Maternity ward upstairs was long and cavernous. How were they managing for an obstetrician now that Dr. Lynn had been hauled off to Dublin Castle? I passed a score of women grunting, gasping, turning, sipping tea or whiskey, kneeling up, nursing their fragile cargo, weeping. Woe unto them that are with child. Also joy. Woe and joy so grown together, it was hard to tell them apart.

I found Father Xavier praying with a patient. He straightened up when he saw me and came over, wiping his dripping nose with a handkerchief.

I wanted to be clear, so it came out curt: I’m taking a baby home.

His grey tufted eyebrows went up.