1799, Mount Vernon
The room has grown close with steam from heated cloths, spilled vinegar, candle grease, and the sharp medicinal smell left in the basins after they have taken more blood for my relief. I cannot swallow without pain, and each attempt at breath drags against the throat as though some rough instrument were lodged there. Dr Craik says little now. That is how I judge the matter. He adjusts his spectacles, touches my wrist, looks once toward the window, and asks for another cloth as if diligence might still alter the event. Martha sits within earshot, composed as ever, though I know what effort that composure costs her. Beyond the chamber the house remains orderly, boots softened on the stairs, doors opened carefully, servants speaking below their natural pitch. I have lived long enough to know the difference between discipline and apprehension, and this house is full of the latter tonight, with no sign yet of release.
