Mabel joins Honora, who is already washing and dressing for bed. She combs Honora’s hair. In exchange, Honora hums “Brother John” over and over.
“That’s all,” Honora finally says. “My throat’s sore.”
So the two girls curl together under their flannel blanket. She rubs the smooth surface of Honora’s thumbnail with the pad of her own smaller thumb, the circular movement slowing until she falls asleep, still holding Honora’s hand in their narrow iron bed.
Near morning, when light at the window is no longer black but is not yet bright either, she wakes to find Honora breathing in rapid gasps, shivering so violently that Mabel can hear her sister’s teeth tapping together.
“I’m cold,” Honora whimpers, when Mabel pushes her face close. “So cold.”
She wraps her arms around Honora. “Is that better?”
Honora pushes weakly against her and cries, “You’re cold. You’re too cold.”
She’s not cold at all, and Honora is as hot as the sun. “Wait,” she says, thinking fast. “I’ll get the lamp.”
The coal-oil lamp is on the bureau, pushed to the back, close to the mirror. She can just see its tin bottom in the dim light, but she’ll need a chair to reach it. Her parents have said she’s not to touch the lamp ever, not even to turn it down and certainly not to light it, but this must be an exception. Honora is shaking, and the lamp will be hot enough to warm her.
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