Chapter 1

"C'mon, Ange. I just picked it up," moaned Timothy Turner. He bent to scoop the toy giraffe from the floor. "Every time I pick it up for her, she drops it again."

His mother giggled. "So why do you suppose she does it, then?" Shelagh's eyes danced over the rim of her tea cup. Glancing at the clock she added, "Finish your breakfast, it's almost time to go."

Tim picked up his spoon, but Angela had other ideas. With another squeal, she released the giraffe over the side of her high chair, delighted by the thunk it made as it hit the floor.

"Angela!" grumped her brother.

"What is it this time?" Patrick came into the room, kissing his wife good morning. He tilted his head to the side, offering his son a look of some sympathy while tickling behind the baby's ear. "My little Angel isn't throwing food at you again, is she?"

With a pained expression, Tim answered. "No. She keeps dropping my old giraffe to the floor. Every time I pick it up, she drops it again."

"So why do you suppose she does it, then?" Patrick smiled.

Heaving a sigh of frustration, Timothy looked up to the ceiling. "Do you two practice things like that? It's really quite irritating."

"I think it just comes naturally, son." Patrick's eyes went to his watch, and he warned, "You'll be late if you don't hurry, Tim."

With the air of suffering mastered only by an adolescent, Tim went to retrieve his bag from his room.

"So what's in store for my two girls today?" Patrick asked, spooning sugar into his tea. He sneaked a look at his wife, busy wiping Angela's cheeks, and slipped in another spoonful. Patrick Turner liked his tea the way he liked his women, light and sweet.

"It's Wednesday, Patrick."

"Oh, right. Washing." He opened the morning news. "They should set Greenwich by you, love."

"Patrick," Shelagh's voice came around the paper, concerned.

"Hmm?"

"Patrick." Her voice grew sharper.

He looked up, guilty. He recognized that tone. He better step lively.

"Yes, dear?"

"Your cough sounded quite terrible this morning. It's been getting worse for weeks."

"It's just a cough, Shelagh. I'm around sick people all the time, and I never catch anything. It'll pass."

Shelagh pursed her lips, but before she could respond Patrick interrupted. "No, I am not tempting Fate. I'm fine, Shelagh." He picked up his paper, eager to end the discussion. "You're fussing," he teased.

"Who's Mum fussing over?" Tim asked, returning for his lunch.

"Me," Patrick said ruefully.

"Good. If she's fussing over you, she can't fuss over me." He dangled the toy giraffe in front of his sister's eyes, waited for her complete attention, then dropped it to the tray. It became immediately apparent that the darling of the family was more than happy to revisit her favorite game.

"Tim!" cried Patrick at his son's retreating back. "You did that on purpose!"

A few hours later, Shelagh was up to her elbows in whites. Patrick and Tim were off on their day, and Angela napped in her cot.

The quiet repetition of the laundry appealed to Shelagh. The water, the smell of the soap, even the physical force needed to wring clothes through the mangle, all helped her clear her mind. Patrick wanted to invest in an electric washer, and she knew the time was near that it would be necessary. Angela's clothes were only getting larger, and Tim was at an age when he went through clean clothes faster than she could wash them. But for now, she liked the old rituals.

She reviewed the breakfast conversation with Patrick. Obviously, he did not want to talk about that cough, but there was something there that gnawed at Shelagh. She had spent enough time as a nurse, and too much time as a tuberculosis patient to know that was no ordinary sound.

Each morning for much of this winter Patrick rose to a tight, hacking cough. After long moments, the spell would pass, and he would seem his old self. Usually, the cough would not return at all during the day, and it was easy to forget its existence. But there was something in its sound that triggered an alarm in Shelagh.

She had learned enough of herself in these last few years to know that her subconscious had a way of alerting her to a problem. For a long time she ignored that voice, fearful of what she might face. Pretending a problem didn't exist would only make matters worse.

Tonight they would talk about this.