When Edith was sleeping, Thomas crept out of the bed and left the room. He moved along to the other side of the house, where Florence's bedroom was, and went in. She was wrapped in blankets, propped against the wall as Lucille stroked her hair and read to her. She was a very sick child, and occasionally had very bad days and nights. Tonight was one of them.
Florence looked up and gave a pained smile when she saw him, holding out a hand.
"Papa."
Her lips moved, but no sound came out. His heart breaking at her use of the nickname, Thomas moved across to the bed and sat down beside her, pulling her into his arms and cradling her. Lucille continued to stroke the child's hair, and after a moment it became clear that she had drifted off to sleep.
"She couldn't sleep without you," Lucille whispered. She sighed, her voice becoming genuinely pained. "She is worsening, and still we cannot afford the medicine."
Thomas sighed and rested his chin atop Florrie's head.
"Soon," he promised his sister. "Then she can live and grow as a normal little girl."
"I don't think she could continue like this for much longer. She is older now," Lucille whispered. Thomas didn't reply, just looked down at the child and kissed her hair again, nestling his cheek against her head. After a moment, he bit his lip.
"I will not let her die. Of all things this world can take from me, it will never have her," he swore. Lucille watched him sorrowfully, then hardened her features and sighed sharply.
"I hope you mean that," she said darkly, leaning forward and kissing Florrie's forehead. Thomas refused to look at her as she stroked the child's hair once more and stood, placing the book on the bedside table and leaving the room. Thomas wasn't going anywhere.
(Much happens between this and the next chapter that I have notes to write. In the meantime, I apologise for the jump.)