Vicente, sleepy eyed, yawning, padded in, barefooted. He stood silently by his sister's bedside. Until now, he had shunned her room unless she asked for him. Ever since Grandpa had been confined to his bed, Vicente had feared death, and, alarmed by Caterina's white face, her stillness, he had kept away. After a glance he stole downstairs, into the kitchen, hungry, cold, uneasy.
The chapel bell clanged its stiff bell for Mass and, after Mass, Gabriel went to sit beside Caterina. She brightened, finding him there, wiping his glasses, smiling.
"Were you here all night?"
"No, I just came in."
"I thought I saw you all night ... holding a candle ... for me."
"No, my angel, that was your mother who was with you."
"I don't remember her."
"You were sleeping."
"I want to get better."
"You are better. I can see you're better today," he lied.