“Come on,” said Nina, laughing. “Let’s go try it all on.”

They dragged all the clothes up to Emily’s bedroom and closed all the curtains. Once the sunlight was sufficiently blocked, Nina helped Aurelia take off her long smock dress, and Emily tried not to stare as Aurelia’s scrawny body emerged from the material. Her skin was so white that it seemed to glow, her limbs awkward and vulnerable without her protective clothing.

When Nina stepped out of her own clothes it was like looking at the opposite side of the same coin. Long and lithe, Nina was extremely confident and comfortable in her own bronzed skin. Tugging her tank top (her “singlet,” she called it) over her head, she tossed it onto the floor with a flick of her wrist, then wriggled out of her denim shorts. She straightened up with no shame or apology—shoulders back, hips forward, back arched—and once again Emily couldn’t help but stare. Nina’s underwear was made of satin and lace, and hugged her curves and angles in just the right way: no indent, no muffin top, nothing. It was ridiculous. Even her stretch marks were elegant, a faint silvery ladder climbing the sides of her hips, reaching for her implausibly flat belly. Emily almost reached out to stroke them.

“What do you think of this?” Nina asked, dropping a floaty blue dress over her shoulders.

Emily had to place her hand over her mouth to stop her jaw from dropping all the way to the floor. “Yeah, it’s great. I like it,” she said haltingly.

“I’m not sure,” Nina said, standing in front of the full-length mirror and biting her lip. “Do you think it’s a bit much?”

For what, the Oscars? “No, I think it’s amazing.”

“But d’you reckon Scott will like it? I mean, it’s not like I can wear it out anywhere.”

“Scott will love it. He’s bonkers if he doesn’t.”

Nina smiled. “Bonkers…,” she said, in an exaggerated Northern accent. She turned back to check her reflection in the mirror and blew a nervous breath through pursed lips. “Yes,” she murmured. “He’ll like it.”

Emily looked from Nina’s reflection to her own and felt a little queasy. It was like peering into a dark hole after staring at the sun.

In the middle of the room, Aurelia twirled in a long candy-striped sundress, a half smile on her lips and her arms in the air, her skinny wrists emerging from the fabric like flower stamens from their petals. No longer grumpy and agitated, she looked like a stoned hippie at a music festival, oblivious to everything around her. The pills had clearly worked.

“Emily.”

“Hmm?” Emily glanced up to find Nina regarding her quizzically

“What’s up with you today? You’re so serious.”

“Am I?” Emily shook her head. “Sorry, I—”

“Here, try these on,” Nina said, throwing a couple of dresses at her. “They ought to fit just fine.”

They didn’t, of course, and Emily felt stupid and frumpy, standing there in her Marks & Spencer knickers while Nina yanked and pulled and tweaked, trying to force the black silky gown to accommodate Emily’s vastly different body shape.

“Hmm,” said Nina, eventually admitting defeat. Then she clicked her fingers. “Wait here; I have just the thing.” She slipped out of the room, leaving Emily and Aurelia alone among the boxes.

An uncomfortable hush fell between them.

“Well.” Emily looked around her bedroom and tried to think of something to say. “This is a big old mess.”

In response, Aurelia bent low and picked up an armful of tissue paper. Throwing it into the air, she rotated slowly as it floated down around her like snowflakes. Emily pulled more paper out of more boxes and hurled it into the air, kicking it as it came down, then stamping through the piles as if through mounds of autumn leaves. Aurelia laughed, so Emily found some polystyrene packing peanuts and sprinkled them over her own head. Aurelia watched the peanuts fall with glassy eyes. She began to sway again.

Emily frowned. “Hey.”

Aurelia was staring past her.

“Hey…” Emily stepped closer. “Are you okay?”

Slowly, Aurelia rocked back and forth.

“My goodness,” said a voice from the corner.

Emily spun around. Nina was standing in the doorway with her hand on her hip, surveying the mess with irritation. Emily felt strangely abashed, but then Nina grinned. “Look at you two,” she said, shaking her head. “My girls. Like kids in a candy store.” Crossing the room, she held out a swathe of material, offering it to Emily.

“Wow,” Emily breathed. The dress was beautiful, a deep olive green with a full skirt and thin spaghetti straps. She lifted her arms as Nina raised it ceremoniously over her head, and the silk flowed over her body like warm milk from a jug. Surprisingly, it fit.

Aurelia briefly stopped swaying. Her eyes were locked on the green dress. Slowly, she wandered over and swished the skirt a few times with her hands before resuming her swirling stoned-hippie dance.

Nina stood back, an unreadable look on her face. “It’s yours,” she said.

“What? No.” Emily had glimpsed the label. It must have cost a fortune.

Nina shrugged. “I’ve never even worn it.”

“You can’t give away something like this. It’d look so much better on you, anyway.”

Nina shook her head and lightly brushed the straps with her fingertips. “No,” she said eventually. “I’ve changed too much.”

Gazing past Nina at her own reflection in the mirror, Emily saw a different person. The green silk had transformed her into someone new. She pushed out her chest and arched her back. She smiled, and the new person smiled back.

And next to her, spinning and drifting like a paper bag caught in a light breeze, Aurelia smiled, too.

We sit on plastic chairs, our bodies curled like parentheses around the cot. She is a princess trapped in a forest of thorns. Wires hang all around like vines, and evil-looking machinery towers over her little body. I hate them. I want to rip them all away, hack them down and break whatever evil spell has been cast so I can carry my baby away to safety.

Instead, I massage my neck with my free hand. I’ve been sitting at the same awkward angle for hours. I could have moved, but in the absence of any other helpful course of action, sitting has taken on a symbolic significance. It’s my penance, the only way to pay my dues—or a fraction of them, at least. No moving, no eating, no washing, nothing. Just this constant vigil.

Finally, when I can stand the pain no longer, I shift in my chair and a wave of nausea almost knocks me down.

On the other side of the cot, my husband twitches. Reaches into his pocket. Looks at his phone.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just work. They’re on their way to the awards.”

The awards. Such a big deal just a few days ago, but now I can barely remember the details. Some big industry accolade. His company was nominated for the first time. He’s been looking forward to the ceremony for months. I was supposed to go with him. He bought me a dress. Olive-green silk with a cinched waist and a long, flowing skirt. I picture it hanging limply in the closet at home.

His phone buzzes again. He stands up and walks across the room. Puts it on a table in a corner. Walks back. Sits down again.

Don’t look so fucking sad, I want to say. There’ll be other awards. When this is all over and our baby is better, there will be more parties, more events, more silky dresses. We could even bring her along, when she’s a little older. She’d love that. She could sit on my lap and cheer.

Parties and dresses … what’s wrong with me? I want to punch my own face. I feel so guilty, so disgusted with myself.

I stroke my daughter’s achingly soft cheek, her little nose, her hot forehead. I trace the curve of her ear and smooth the velvety place where her hairline begins. I press my lips to her temple and gaze into her eyes, studying the extraordinary shapes and patterns of her iris. All children are unique, blah blah blah, but I know that my baby is special beyond compare. The proof is everywhere: in the lift and wave of her hair, her sweet-as-honey skin, and the unspeakable beauty of her eyes. Both are a deep chocolatey brown with honeyed swirls and nicks of gold, and the right eye holds a little surprise. Northwest of the pupil, there’s a spot of pure blue like a single rock pool left behind by the tide. I noticed it when she was about six months old, once the standard newborn gray-blue had started to change. It was like a stamp, a seal—confirmation that she was different.

An icy horror sticks its fingers in my belly. I can’t lose her. My precious miracle. They said it would never happen. I will never forget those clammy hands on my body, prodding and pressing in a different hospital room far, far away. They said I was broken. But they were wrong.