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Two days went by and things returned to normal. Except Carson didn't sleep anymore. Visions of his cousin dying from stomach cancer crept across his mind, with his cousin replaced by Mrs. Hughes. The agony, the retching,...the blood. And why should his Mrs. Hughes be fated as such? Why must she be the one to carry that burden?

He rolled over in his bed, sleep eluding him for the third night in a row.

It occurred to him he didn't know what kind of cancer Mrs. Hughes suffered. Was it of the stomach? the liver? her bones?

It felt indecent to ask.

What was most troubling was how fine she looked. How could someone so healthy looking, so vibrant and effervescent, be on the brink of dea- No. Pain. She would be in pain, there was no doubt of that. But he couldn't see that she was in pain now.

She even laughed. When Alfred joked with Anna, or Mrs. Patemore commented on the slowness of the footmen, Mrs. Hughes would laugh. And now that he'd come to think of it, she was laughing more than he had ever seen her laugh.

The night before they had drunk a wonderful sherry that he'd been saving for an occasion of some type. The whole night they spent laughing at old stories of bygone maids and hallboys. It had been past eleven before they went up, something for which he kicked himself. The woman needed her rest if she was -

But she wasn't going to get better.

He groaned, rolling over in his bed once more. The sheets tangled about his legs and he found himself uncaring. Three days of uncaring. He'd even forgotten to decant the dessert wine.

Resigning himself to another night's sleeplessness he left his bed to find some tea. And perhaps a biscuit or two.

The kitchen was deserted. For that he was grateful. Once the tea and a small tin of biscuits were procured he sat himself at his desk and began to eat slowly. The longer he took the sooner the sun would rise and he could begin his day. He could say 'good morning' to Mrs. Hughes. Because he had decided that not a day would go by that he didn't say good morning to her. Nor would a night disappear without him wishing her a 'good night.'

He set down the biscuit he was eating. Blinking, he tried to hold back his tears. One escaped and he told himself he wasn't going to cry. He would not cry. And as he told himself to reign it in, the tears fell sloppy and wet and his handkerchief was upstairs in his coat pocket. He wouldn't cry. But his eyes grew puffy and his face grew wet. Sobs wracked his body as he tried desperately to keep them in.

One day he would not be able to say 'good morning' to her.

The scampering of feet in the passageway pulled him from his mourning. Blonde hair and a white nightdress swished away. Anna.

Once again he found himself uncaring.