The house smelled of leather and sickness—oiled hides from below, sour linens above. When the window was shut against the neighbors' eyes, the air grew thick enough to chew. Amelia had learned to breathe through her mouth, small and steady, so the stink would not settle in her throat.
Downstairs, her father's hammer kept time: three soft taps to seat the nail, one hard strike to finish. She counted without thinking. Three and one, three and one. The rhythm steadied her hands as she wrung the rag in the basin. Water trembled on her knuckles, glimmering around the sores that never closed, not really. She folded the cloth exactly in half, then in half again. The square had to be true. If it were true, perhaps the world would be.
Her mother moaned—a low sound at first, a kettle unfurling. Then the fever surged and pulled the voice upright, sharpening it to a cry. "The light," Sarah said to no one. "The light won't stop. Take it out. Take it out—"
"There's no light, Mama." Amelia stood on tiptoe and pressed the cloth to the hot brow. "It's only the candle."
"The light is in my head."
The sheet tore beneath Sarah's fist. Fingers clawed for something to rip, to make the pain visible. A pale ribbon lay curled on the dresser, frayed from months of tying hair and sleeves, tying parcels, tying anything that needed to be still. Amelia saw it as if the ribbon had been waiting, patient, faithful. She filed the thought away and turned back to the basin. She was not to use the ribbon, not unless—
The scream pitched higher. It was not just sound; it was a spike shoved into Amelia's ear. She flinched and counted the hammer. Three and one. If she could swallow the sound and fix it to a pattern, it might not split her open.
"Water," Sarah gasped, then jerked away from the cup. The water splashed across the blanket, soaking into the heat. "God, God, God—"
"Mama." The word came out flat. It had to. If she let it bend, it would break. "Don't scratch. Not your skin."
Her mother's nails raked down her own forearm, then across Amelia's wrist. The bright sting snapped Amelia to the dresser. She plucked up the ribbon and returned to the bed. Her hands looked small and clever, the way spiders look small and clever, quick at their task. Around the right wrist, twice. Around the left. Knot once, and once again. Tight enough to still the thrashing but not to bruise. She was careful; she was always careful.
"Don't, don't," Sarah whimpered—and then she stilled, as if the knot tugged sleep down over her.
Silence did not come with trumpets. It arrived like fog, soaking the edges, swallowing the corners. Amelia sat on the stool and watched the quiet take shape, rimming her mother's mouth, smoothing the lines at her eyes. Sarah breathed. The candle spit. The house settled. The hammer below slowed as her father shifted a boot on the last.
Amelia did not smile. She did not weep. She placed her hands palm-down on her knees and felt the weight of them. I did that. The thought did not shout. It did not need to. It moved into her body and hung a picture on the wall. Here is the girl who makes the screaming stop.
After a while, she eased the ribbon loose and tucked it beneath the pillow. Her mother slept, or sank; the difference did not matter tonight. Amelia wiped the blood from the torn forearm with the corners of the rag, using new corners when the old ones pinked. She liked the way the cloth obeyed. She liked the way the knot had held. She liked—she allowed herself to think the word, only in the quiet of her skull—control.
Downstairs, the hammer began again, slow, as if the boot had grown stubborn. Three and one, three and one. If the world would not be kind, it would at least be counted. She blew the candle nearly out, then let it catch again. She set the wick to the exact height she preferred—just enough light to draw a circle around the bed, and beyond it, nothing.
Later, when her mother woke and began to mutter, Amelia would do the things that must be done. But for now there was this: a room contained, a breath that rose and fell on the clock's permission, and a ribbon, warm from fever, sleeping beneath her hand.