“Eat your stew, father,” they would always respond without fail, “you need to grow stronger. We need you to grow stronger.” The bumps that infected Sybil never appeared on Isaac’s skin, but his vomit soon turned red, leaving the dank, metallic stench of his blood all over the house floors. Knowing that God was angry at him too, he crawled to Sybil’s deathbed and awaited the same fate. He called for Everard and Eleanor one last time, but they could not approach: Everard was frightened of God’s punishment and Eleanor was too cautious of inhaling the miasma. Sybil’s name was on the verge of Isaac’s tongue as he took his last breath. The children watched in horror as Isaac’s chest stopped moving, and his eyes lost their shine. They huddled together on the other side of the house, Eleanor whispering under her breath that everything was going to be alright, everything was going to be just fine, as she held her brother in her arms. She knew that she was in charge now – that she was now responsible for the rest of her and her brother’s lives. Together they wept and wept until their eyes were dry and red, Everard praying for a miracle and Eleanor cursing her God for forcing such a cruel fate upon them. A masked man came by again, a different one this time, and told Everard and Eleanor that he could not take the body. There was too much sickness in the air – one body was not important enough to carry away. So Isaac was left to decompose in the thick wool sheets of the bed.