Muddy poured the last of the tea into Eddie's cup. She used a stained tea towel as a hot pad to avoid burning her hands, even though she wore gloves, for the kitchen was cold despite the wood-burning stove. The drafty cottage did nothing to douse their despair of losing Sissy.
They watched the snow fall outside the kitchen window. They communicated their sadness to each other without using any words. There was something about despair that deprived one of energy to speak.
Muddy carefully took the last of the biscuits from the cupboard above the window and placed them before her dear nephew and son-in-law.
"You must eat, Eddie," she urged. "I cannot lose you, too."
But Eddie didn't budge. It was as if his soul had joined his sweet Virginia in the next world. But here his body sat in his black clothing, neither speaking nor eating nor moving. He was neither alive nor dead, neither in this world nor the next. His soul was stuck in some painful shadowland. Muddy knew his pain. She knew better than to try to speak to him. Words are hollow when one has lost the will to go on.
She put another log on the fire. All she could do for her dear Eddie now was to keep him as comfortable as possible while time healed his broken heart. She cursed the cold as it was not conducive to healing one's broken heart.
When she turned her Eddie was gone from the table. She had not even heard him get up. She had no time go upstairs to check on him, assuming he had retreated to his writing desk when she heard the knock at the front door.
Upon opening it, she was handed a letter from the post informing her that her nephew had died in Baltimore and was buried two days ago. Her legs went numb beneath her. Closing the door against the cold air, she stumbled toward the wooden table where she observed Eddie sitting earlier. Leaning against it, she regained her equilibrium and breathing enough to make her way up the staircase and throw open the door to Edgar's writing desk. The room was vacant, as was every other room in the cold, dreary cottage.