One of the many things on Lib’s conscience was that she was repaying the nun’s care with cruelty. Sister Michael would spend the rest of her life convinced that the two of them had brought about, or at least failed to prevent, the death of Anna O’Donnell.

Well, it couldn’t be helped. All that mattered was the girl.

For the first time, Lib understood the wolfishness of mothers. It occurred to her that if by some miracle she came through today’s trials and got away to that room in Athlone where William Byrne was waiting, she’d become the girl’s mother, or the nearest thing to it.

Take oh take me for thy child, was that how the hymn went? In times to come, when Nan-who-was-once-Anna blamed someone, it would be Lib. That was part of motherhood, she supposed, bearing responsibility for pushing the child out of warm darkness into the dreadful brightness of new life.

Mr. Thaddeus walked past just then, with O’Flaherty. The gleam had been knocked off the priest; he was showing his age. He nodded to the nurses, gloomily abstracted.

“There’s no need for you to be questioned by the committee,” Lib told the nun. “You know nothing.” That came out too brusque. “I mean, you weren’t there—you were at the chapel—at the end.”

Sister Michael crossed herself. “God rest her, the creature.”

They stepped aside to make room for the baronet.

“I shouldn’t keep them waiting,” said Lib, moving towards the back room.

But the nun put a hand on Lib’s arm, above the bandage. “Best not do or say anything till you’re called on. Humility, Mrs. Wright, and penitence.”

Lib blinked. “Penitence?” Her voice too loud. “Isn’t it they who should be penitent?”

Sister Michael shushed her. “Blessed are the meek.”

“But I told them, three days ago—”

The nun stepped closer, her lips almost touching Lib’s ear. “Be meek, Mrs. Wright, and just maybe they’ll let you go.”

It was sound advice; Lib shut her mouth.

John Flynn strode by, his face set in hard lines.

And what comfort could Lib offer Sister Michael in return? “Anna had—how did you put it the other day?—she made a good death.”

“She went willingly? Unresisting?” There was something troubled in those big eyes, unless Lib was imagining it. Something more than misery; doubt? Suspicion, even?

Her throat tightened. “Quite willingly,” she assured the nun. “She was ready to go.”

Dr. McBrearty hurried down the passage, his face caved in, panting as if he’d been running. He didn’t so much as glance at the nurses as he went by.

“I’m sorry, Sister,” said Lib, her voice uneven, “so very sorry.”

“Shush,” said the nun again, softly, as if to a child. “Between you and me, Mrs. Wright, I had a vision.”

“A vision?”

“A sort of waking dream. I came away from the chapel early, you see, as I was fearful for Anna.”

Lib’s heart started to pound.

“I was walking down the lane when I thought I saw… I seemed to see an angel riding away with the child.”

Dumbstruck. She knows. Loud in Lib’s head. She has our fate in her hands. Sister Michael was vowed to obedience; how could she not confess what she’d seen to the committee?

“Was it a true vision, would you say?” asked the nun, her gaze burning into Lib.

All she could do was nod.

A terrible silence. Then: “His ways are mysterious.”

“They are,” said Lib hoarsely.

“Has the child gone to a better place—can you promise me that much?”

One more nod.

“Mrs. Wright.” Ryan, jerking his thumb. “’Tis time.”

Lib left the nun without a word of good-bye. She could hardly believe it. She was still steeled against the possibility of a shouted accusation, but none came. She couldn’t stop herself from glancing over her shoulder. The nun had her hands joined and her head bowed. She’s setting us free.

In the back room, there was a stool placed before the trestle tables where the committee sat, but Lib stood in front of it, to look humbler, as Sister Michael had advised her.

McBrearty tugged the door shut behind him.

“Sir Otway?” That was the publican, deferential.

The baronet made a limp gesture. “Since I’m here not as resident magistrate but only in a private capacity—”

“I’ll begin, so.” It was Flynn who spoke up in his bearish tone. “Nurse Wright.”

“Gentlemen.” Lib could hardly be heard. She didn’t have to force her voice to quiver.

“What in all the blazes happened last night?”

Blazes? For a moment she feared she was going to laugh; did Flynn even hear the pun?

Lib adjusted one of her bandages where it was digging into her wrist, and a stab of pain cleared her mind. She closed her eyes and bent her head as if overcome, producing a series of racked sobs.

“Ma’am, you’ll do yourself no good by giving way in such a manner.” The baronet’s voice was peevish.

No good legally, or did he mean only her health?

“Just tell us what happened to the little girl,” said Flynn.

Lib wailed, “Anna just, she wouldn’t—that evening she got weaker and weaker. My notes.” She lunged at McBrearty and laid her memorandum book in front of him, open where the words and figures ran out. “I never thought she’d go so fast. She shivered, and fought for breath—until she suddenly stopped.” Lib gulped the air. Let the six men think about the sound of a child’s last breath. “I shouted for help but I suppose no one was within hearing distance. The neighbours must have been at the church. I tried to get some whiskey down her throat. I was distracted; I ran about like a mad thing.”