One morning in March, she awakened with the sunlight already streaming through the slats in the shutters—Odilia had slept through the night. Her breasts heavy with milk, Aemilia reached into the cradle, but the baby didn’t stir. Her daughter felt stiff in her arms, her skin cold to her touch, and her eyes wouldn’t open. In a panic, Aemilia unwrapped the baby’s swaddling and listened for her heartbeat, but she heard only her own ragged breathing. She hadn’t even known she cried out until the Weir sisters came running. Henry tumbled out of bed and stared, his eyes huge and frightened. Her heart pounding in mad hope, Aemilia passed the baby to Prudence, who seemed to have every herb in existence hanging from their kitchen beams. If Pru had raised Alfonse like Lazarus when he had nearly died of the French pox, surely she could revive a little baby. Perhaps Odilia had a fit during the night or perhaps she had only fainted. While Prudence examined Odilia, Aemilia comforted Henry. “If it stays fine today,”
