the envelope flap and unfolded two sheets of creamy white stationery, with Malen Koye Nebo, “Little Heaven,” engraved in black type at the top. Just seeing her handwriting sent a pang of longing for my dear friend. What a comfort she would be, here with me, to talk about Henry and that terrible day. How strange she didn’t even know he’d died. I had written her about it. Were my letters still being received?
Dear Eliza,
I hope you are well. It seems like just last week we stood on your terrace in Southampton. We received your books, thank you. I’ve always wanted to read Five Weeks in a Balloon and Luba is over the moon, for she loves Jules Verne and is quite curious about Africa. I will tell you the day we start so we can all read together.
As you so aptly predicted, the situation deteriorates here, I’m afraid, with the working classes in an ever-worsening state of discontent, distracted by war for now but for how long? Germany is a most determined foe. Father grows more concerned about the mounting Bolshevik movement and the growing number of attacks on estates by bandits, and we are packing for a move. With Afon off with his regiment, we are increasingly vulnerable and Father has arranged for our departure via train.
I will send a telegram and write with more details immediately upon our arrival.
A kiss to your charming Henry, and one to Caroline, too.
Do say a prayer or two for us.
Your most loving and devoted friend,
Sofya
My whole body grew cold as I reread the letter. The growing number of attacks on estates by bandits? Why had I not followed through and sent Sofya my travel agent’s name as I’d promised? They could have been safe here with me this very moment.
I ran through the names of Mother’s friends at the State Department. Could one of them help the Streshnayvas? Ensure safe travel out of Russia? I pocketed her letter and stepped into Caroline’s room.
I held on to one post of the canopy bed, and fought back tears at the sight of Peg, her dark hair piled up on her head, helping my daughter step into a mourning dress of her own. Since Caroline was only thirteen years old, not yet fourteen, the age at which children were sentenced to wear black, she wore a frock of dull, white linen, with an oversized, black crape sash as an awful reminder her father was gone.
Caroline’s gaze came to me as I entered, a lilac crescent under each eye. “It’s not fair that you have to wear heavy black when I wear white, Mother.”
Why could I not embrace her, wash away her pain?
“White’s a symbol of hope,” Peg said, through the pins in her mouth.
While Peg had only a vague idea of how to mop a floor, she possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of mourning practices.
“I’ve baked the mourning biscuits, Mrs. Ferriday,” Peg said, eyes on her work. She nodded to the morbid little ovals, which sat in a bowl on Caroline’s desk, each wrapped in wax paper, with a black wax seal affixed.
“And I’ve covered the mirrors in crape.” Peg wore a black dress, which I assumed got regular use since she spoke of funerals she’d attended as some speak of their favorite plays.
Caroline waved her hand in front of her face. “The crape smells terrible.”
Made with a host of harmful chemicals, the fabric was unhealthy, but was the requisite item worn to show proper mourning. Clearly the deceased’s family was obligated to risk their own health after their loved one died.
“No need to cover our mirrors, Peg.”
“You don’t want the spirits seeing themselves.”
I was too tired to fight. Was it Dr. Forbes’s pills?
“And please stop turning the pictures over.” I returned every photo upright, only to find them turned over once more, all part of Peg’s bereavement protocol, since she felt departed spirits would invade the photos.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Thunder rumbled above us and shook the china dogs on Caroline’s shelf. Peg stepped to the window, drew back the white-dotted Swiss curtain. “That thunder means Mr. Ferriday reached heaven—”
Caroline turned her face to me, eyes bright with tears.
“—and may come back tonight for a visit.”
“That’s enough, Peg.”
“But, my uncle Pat—”
“I don’t care about your uncle Pat, you are scaring my daughter and I want you to stop with this. The pictures and the predictions—”
Peg bowed her head and dabbed at her eyes with her black-trimmed handkerchief.
“Ridiculous Irish voodoo. Mr. Ferriday is dead and he’s not coming