Lib frowned. “Yes?”

“It’s about confession. The girl in the story wasn’t being punished for letting the Host fall,” said the nun, “but for keeping her mistake a secret all her life.”

This was theological hairsplitting, and Lib had no time for it. “You’re speaking in riddles.”

“When the old woman confessed it at last, you see, she laid her burden down,” the nun whispered, eyes turning towards the bed.

Lib blinked. Could these hints mean that the nun thought Anna had a terrible secret to confess—that the girl was no miracle after all?

She tried to recall their brief conversations of the past week. Had the nun ever actually said that she believed Anna to be living without food?

No; blinkered by prejudice, Lib had just assumed she thought that. Sister Michael had kept her own counsel or uttered anodyne generalities.

Lib stepped up very close to her now and murmured, “You’ve known all along.”

Sister Michael’s hands flew up. “I was only—”

“You’re as familiar with the facts of nutrition as I. We’ve both known from the start that this must be a hoax.”

“Not known,” whispered Sister Michael. “We know nothing for sure.”

“Anna’s sinking fast, Sister. Weaker every day, colder, more numb. Have you smelled her breath? That’s her stomach consuming itself.”

The nun’s prominent eyes glistened.

“You and I must dig out the truth,” said Lib, gripping her wrist. “Not just because we’ve been charged with that task, but because the child’s life depends on it.”

Sister Michael turned on her heel and fled from the room.

Lib couldn’t pursue her; she was shackled here. She groaned to herself.

But in the morning the nun would have to come back, and Lib would be ready for her.

Anna was awake on and off that night. She turned her head or curled the other way. Six days left till the end of the watch. No, Lib corrected herself, that was only if Anna lasted six more days. How long could a child cling to life on sips of water?

A delightful dying child. It was as well that Lib knew the truth, she told herself; now she could act. But for Anna’s sake, she had to proceed with the greatest care, without displaying arrogance or losing her temper again. Remember, she told herself, you’re a stranger here.

A fast didn’t go fast; it was the slowest thing there was. Fast meant a door shut fast, firmly. A fastness, a fortress. To fast was to hold fast to emptiness, to say no and no and no again.

Anna was staring torpidly at the shadows the lamp projected on the walls.

“Is there anything you want?”

A shake of the head.

Strange children have faded away, and have halted from their paths. Lib sat and watched the girl. Blinked with dry eyes.

When the nun put her head in the door just after five in the morning, Lib leapt up so fast, a muscle in her back twanged. She shut the door almost in the face of Rosaleen O’Donnell. “Listen, Sister.” Barely voicing the words. “We must tell Dr. McBrearty that the child’s killing herself by degrees out of an excess of grief for her brother. It’s time to call off the watch.”

“We did accept this charge,” said the nun faintly, as if each syllable were coming up from a deep hole in the earth.

“But did you ever think we’d reach this point?” Lib gestured at the sleeper in the bed.

“Anna’s a very special girl.”

“Not so special that she can’t die.”

Sister Michael writhed. “I’m under a vow of obedience. Our orders were very clear. ”

“And we’ve been following them to the letter, as torturers do.”

Lib watched the nun’s face register that blow. Suspicion seized her. “Do you have other orders, Sister? From Mr. Thaddeus, perhaps, or your superiors at the convent?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you been told to see nothing and hear nothing and say nothing, no matter what you really think is going on in this cabin?” Almost snarling. “Told to testify to a miracle?”

“Mrs. Wright!” The nun’s face was livid.

“I beg your pardon if I’m wrong.” Lib’s tone was sullen, but she did believe the woman. “Then why won’t you speak to the doctor with me?”

“Because I’m only a nurse,” said Sister Michael.

“I was taught the full meaning of that word,” Lib raged. “Weren’t you?”

The door opened with a bang. Rosaleen O’Donnell. “May I say good morning to my child, at least?”

“Anna’s still asleep,” said Lib, turning to the bed.

But the girl’s eyes were wide open. How much had she heard?

“Good morning, Anna,” said Lib, her voice uneven.

The girl looked quite insubstantial, a drawing on old parchment. “Good morning, Mrs. Wright. Sister. Mammy.” Her smile radiating weakly in all directions.

At nine—Lib had waited as long as she could, for manners’ sake—she walked to McBrearty’s house.

“The doctor’s out,” said the housekeeper.

“Out where?” Too shaky with fatigue to phrase it more politely.

“Is it the O’Donnell girl, is she not well?”