Terror glinted in his eyes. “The doctor said—”

“He’s wrong. Her heart’s racing, her temperature’s dropping, and her lungs are filling up with fluid.”

“The creature!” He stared down at the small body outlined by the blankets.

It was on the tip of Lib’s tongue now to blurt out the whole story of the manna. But it was a grave thing to come between man and wife, and risky, because how could Malachy possibly take the Englishwoman’s word against Rosaleen’s? If Kitty had been outraged by Lib’s accusation against her mistress, wouldn’t Malachy be also? After all, Lib had no hard evidence. She couldn’t bring herself to wake Anna and try to force her to repeat the story to her father, and besides, she very much doubted she’d succeed.

No. What mattered was not the truth, but Anna. Stick to what Malachy could see for himself, now Lib had ripped the veil off. Tell him just enough to wake the protective father in him. “Anna means to die,” she said, “in hopes of getting your son out of purgatory.”

“What?” Wildly.

“As a sort of exchange,” said Lib. Was she rendering it right, this nightmarish story? “A sacrifice.”

“God save us,” muttered Malachy.

“When she wakes, won’t you tell her she’s wrong?”

His big hand was covering his face. His words were muffled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sure there’s no telling Anna.”

“Don’t be absurd. She’s a child,” Lib pointed out. “Your child.”

“She has twice my wits and more,” said Malachy. “I don’t know where we got her.”

“Well, you’re going to lose her if you don’t act fast. Be firm with her. Be her father.”

“Only her earthly one,” said Malachy, mournful. “He’s the only one she’ll hear,” he said, jerking his head towards the sky.

The nun was in the doorway; nine o’clock. “Good evening, Mrs. Wright.”

Malachy hurried out, leaving Lib baffled. These people!

Only when she was putting on her cape did she remember the wretched meeting. “I mean to address the committee tonight,” she reminded Sister Michael.

A nod. The nun hadn’t brought any substitute with her to the cabin, Lib realized, which meant she was adamant in her refusal to come to the meeting.

“A pot of boiling water for steam might ease Anna’s breathing,” said Lib on her way out.

She waited in her upstairs room, belly clenched. It was not just nerves at the thought of barging into a meeting of her employers but an awful ambivalence. If Lib persuaded the committee that the purpose of the watch had been accomplished—told them all about the manna hoax—then they might very well discharge Lib on the spot, with their thanks. In which case, she doubted she’d even get a chance to say good-bye to Anna before setting off for England. (She pictured the hospital and somehow couldn’t imagine taking up her old life there again.) The personal loss was irrelevant, Lib told herself; every nurse had to bid farewell to every patient, one way or another. But what about Anna; who’d look after her then, and would anyone or anything persuade her to give up her doomed fast? Lib was aware of the irony: she hadn’t enticed the girl to eat so much as a crumb yet, but she was convinced that she was the only one who could. Was she arrogant to the point of delusion?

To do nothing was the deadliest sin; that was what Byrne had said about his reports on the famine.

Lib checked her watch. A quarter past ten; the committee should be gathered by now, even if the Irish were always late. Standing up, she neatened her grey uniform and smoothened down her hair.

Behind the grocery shop, she waited outside the meeting room until she recognized some of the voices: the doctor’s and the priest’s. Then she tapped at the door.

No answer. Perhaps they hadn’t heard her. Was that a woman’s voice? Had Sister Michael managed to come to the meeting after all?

When Lib let herself in, the first person she saw was Rosaleen O’Donnell. Their eyes locked. Malachy, behind his wife. Both of them looked shaken at the sight of the nurse.

Lib bit her lip; she hadn’t expected the parents to be here.

A short, long-nosed man in old brocade was in the big chair with a carved back, presiding over a table improvised from three trestles. Sir Otway Blackett, she guessed; a retired officer, from his bearing. She recognized the Irish Times on the table; were they discussing Byrne’s piece?

“And this is?” inquired Sir Otway.

“The English nurse, come without being asked,” said big John Flynn in the next chair along.

“This is a private meeting, Mrs. Wright,” said Dr. McBrearty.

Mr. Ryan—her host—jerked his head at Lib as if to say she should go back upstairs.

The one stranger to her was a greasy-haired man who had to be O’Flaherty, the schoolteacher. Lib looked from face to face, refusing to be cowed. She’d begin on firm ground with what was charted in her memorandum book. “Gentlemen, excuse me. I thought you should hear the very latest news of Anna O’Donnell’s health.”

“What news?” scoffed Rosaleen O’Donnell. “Sure I left her sleeping peacefully not half an hour ago.”

“I’ve already given my report, Mrs. Wright,” said Dr. McBrearty scoldingly.