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and then to bleed when she scratched them. Patrick covered her with bandages to keep her from scratching the welts raw. At night, she was terrified by what might be under the bed. She wore only platform shoes and watched her feet incessantly when she began to venture out of the house. She thought to herself that she wouldn’t be able to see the summit of Mount Kenya because she wouldn’t dare take her eyes off the ground.
    On Wednesday night, when Margaret was, as Diana had predicted, perfectly fine, Patrick and she heard banging on the front door. Patrick grabbed a thick stick he kept in the closet. He told Margaret to go to the bedroom and lock the door, but she didn’t. How would Patrick survive if she locked him out? Patrick called through the door, and even Margaret could hear Diana’s voice. Diana stepped into the living room just as Margaret came around the corner. With Diana was Adhiambo, the children’s ayah, holding a cloth over her mouth and nose, trying in vain to cover her face.
    “She says she’s been raped,” Diana announced. One had only to look at the young African woman to know that something terrible had happened to her. Her blouse was torn, and her pink-and-red khanga had a long mud stain running from her ankle to her hip.
    “She came to us for help,” Diana said. “But I can’t have her in the house when the children wake up. I simply can’t. Not in the state she’s in now. I’d like to leave her here with you, if that’s all right. Well, it has to be all right. In the morning, James will walk her home and make sure her room is securely locked.”
    “Sure,” Margaret said, reaching out her hand to beckon Adhiambo in. Margaret stopped, aware of the terror Adhiambo might feel at a stranger’s touch. Or would a woman’s touch be welcome?
    Diana wiped her brow with the back of her arm. “Trouble comes in threes,” she said.
    It wasn’t until Margaret had shut the door that she wondered what number Diana was on.
    Adhiambo wouldn’t speak. Patrick wanted to get her to a hospital, but she shook her head vehemently when he suggested it. The cloth she was using to hide her face was bloody, and Margaret noticed a swelling at her eyebrow, nearly an egg. She gave Adhiambo a glass of water. Margaret wanted to ask her what had happened, but she already knew the woman wasn’t ready to talk to anyone. Patrick, frustrated, picked up the phone.
    “No,” Margaret told him, and he put it down.
    “At least let me take a look at her.”
    Margaret explained to Adhiambo that Patrick was a doctor and that he just wanted to check to see if she was all right. Again, Adhiambo shook her head and headed for the door.
    Margaret raced around and stood in front of her. “No one will touch you,” she said. She turned and backed through the living room, encouraging Adhiambo to follow her. Margaret urged the woman into the bedroom.
    “I will run you a bath,” Margaret said. Adhiambo stood still. There were small bloody smears where she had walked. Margaret saw the scene: the broken window, the bits of glass underfoot.
    “Before you get into the bath, please check your feet. You might have stepped on glass. Wait until the bleeding stops before you get in. If you need plasters for after, I have some in the medicine cabinet.”
    Margaret entered the bathroom and opened the taps in the tub. From a shelf, she took two fresh towels, which she set upon a dressing table. Before she let Adhiambo in, she found a set of clean underwear, a khanga, and a blouse. Adhiambo and Margaret were roughly the same size. She set the clothes on the dressing table as well. She nodded, and Adhiambo entered the bathroom. For a moment, Margaret wondered about suicide. She found Patrick’s razor and the pair of scissors in the cabinet and muttered something about needing them. The woman seemed too beaten down to have the energy to take her own life. Margaret left and shut the door.
    She stripped the bed and made it with clean sheets.