“I heard your voice,” she said.
Nell looked more like a fairy princess than a nurse. She was tall and willowy, with golden hair that fell in soft ringlets around a face so exquisite that case-hardened men of the world tended to melt when they caught sight of it. She was dressed, like Kit, in blue jeans, an old pullover, and woolen socks, but she somehow managed to look regal no matter what she was wearing. I couldn’t detect the slightest trace of sorrow, regret, or fatigue in her. Her midnight-blue eyes were as serene as ever, and her manner was calm and entirely self-assured. Although Nell was only nineteen years old, she was, and always had been, more mature than I’d ever be.
“I’m sorry about the wedding,” I said.
“The wedding will keep,” said Nell. “Ruth and Louise won’t.”
I looked down the darkened hallway. “How are they?”
“They’re waiting for you,” she said. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me. Kit’s in desperate need of a cup of cocoa. He’s been a bit overwhelmed by well-wishers.” She bent to kiss me softly on the cheek, then floated down the stairs as gracefully as an autumn leaf.
I took a steadying breath, walked to the first door on the left, and let myself in to the Pyms’ bedroom. The room was just as I’d imagined it would be—spacious, airy, and unmistakably feminine. The ceiling was white and the walls were covered with a pretty wallpaper patterned with pale blue ribbons and bunches of bright red poppies. A wood fire crackled in the tiled fireplace to my left, throwing bright reflections across the polished floorboards.
To my right, a matching pair of white-painted iron beds sat on either side of an oval night table that held two rose-shaded lamps and a pair of well-thumbed Bibles. The bedclothes on each bed were identical, from the crocheted coverlets layered atop the white duvets to the ruffled bed skirts and the lace-edged pillowcases. A splendidly carved oak wardrobe filled the wall next to the doorway, and two white-painted dressing tables sat side by side between a pair of tall windows that overlooked the front garden. The dressing tables held matching silver-backed brushes, yellowing ivory combs, hand-painted porcelain boxes, and delicate bottles filled with the lavender water the sisters made every summer.
The only discordant notes in the room were struck by the medical paraphernalia Dr. Finisterre had left behind. An oxygen tank sat beside each bed, and a card table placed discreetly in a dim corner held medicine bottles, a blood-pressure cuff, and a thermometer. I averted my eyes from the card table and turned to regard the Pyms.
Ruth and Louise sat upright in their beds, propped against piled pillows. They weren’t wearing oxygen masks or tubes to help them breathe, so I assumed they weren’t in the final throes of their illness. Their long white hair had been loosed from the buns they usually wore and lay fanned across their pillows like bridal veils. They were clad in matching dove-gray bed jackets made of quilted silk and trimmed at neckline and cuff with ivory lace. Their blue-veined hands lay motionless atop the coverlets, but their bright bird’s eyes followed me closely as I crossed from the doorway to stand between their beds.
As always, I found it impossible to tell the sisters apart until one of them spoke. Ruth invariably opened our conversations.
“Lori,” she said in a weak and breathy voice, “how kind of you . . .”
“. . . to visit us at such a late hour.” Louise’s voice was as faint as her sister’s. “We won’t . . .”
“. . . keep you long,” Ruth continued. “Please . . .”
“. . . make yourself comfortable,” Louise finished.
My throat tightened when I realized how much I would miss the Pyms’ ping-pong manner of speaking, but I swallowed my emotions, drew a chair from one of the dressing tables, and took a seat between the beds.
“Rumor has it that you had a funny turn,” I said.
“It’s only to be expected,” said Ruth. “We’re not . . .”
“. . . spring chickens,” said Louise. “I rather think we’re . . .”
“. . . ready for plucking,” said Ruth with a wheezy chuckle.
“I wouldn’t put it quite so bluntly,” I said, wincing.
“Ah, but we would,” Louise pointed out. “There’s no need to feel . . .”
“. . . sad about our parting, Lori,” Ruth went on. “To everything . . .”
“. . . there is a season,” said Louise. “Our season has been rich and full . . .”
“. . . and much longer than most,” said Ruth. “My sister and I are almost ready to shuffle off . . .”
To Buffalo? I thought wildly. The plucked-chicken metaphor had thrown me for a loop.
“. . . our mortal coils.” Louise completed the Shakespearean tag matter-of-factly. “Before we do so, however, we must . . .”
“. . . set our affairs in order,” said Ruth. “We must . . .”
“. . . tie up some loose ends,” said Louise. “Unfortunately, we’ve left it . . .”