Theodore’s teether had left three damp spots on the blue wool blanket when I laid him across Mr.

Winslow’s chest.

I was reaching for a clean cloth on the bedside tray when the dead man’s thumb moved.

It wasn’t a muscle twitch from a cold room.

The thick joint pressed down into the blue yarn, held there for three seconds, and let go.

I froze with the cloth in my right hand and squeezed my left wrist until my knuckles turned white.

Theodore whimpered against the heavy flannel of Mr.

Winslow’s nightshirt, his forehead hot against my wrist.

Mr.

Winslow hadn’t spoken a word or swallowed any broth since the middle of August.

His nephew Christopher paid me sixty-five dollars a day to change the linens and keep the brass fixtures polished in the west wing.

I leaned down until my ear was two inches from the deep crease beside Mr.

Winslow’s mouth.

His breathing was thin and dry, like straw being dragged across stone.

“Mr.

Winslow,” I whispered.

The skin on his cheek stayed still, but his right eyelid pulled halfway open.

The eye was dark and flat, but it fixed straight on my face.