Page 19 of The Number of Love
The old man chuckled when he came toDon Quixote. “How did I know you would be the one to purchase this?”
“I’m predictable.” Smiling, he handed over bills and coin enough when the proprietor told him the total, exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then slid out the door.
Spices and greetings tinged the air as he strolled the ten minutes to Abuelo’s proud house. Drake called out “Buenas tardes”to all his neighbors, juggling his books time and again to wave or shake a hand.
He knew well that most of these neighbors thought he’d moved in with Abuelo solely to avoid serving in the war. No doubt a few of them looked down on him for it. That had taken a bit of teeth-clenching and spine-straightening to get over when first Hall and Thoroton positioned him here, but at this point he generally believed himself when he recited the refrain that no one else’s opinion mattered.
They didn’t, not ultimately.Heknew he was serving his country. It didn’t require the daily wearing of a uniform or a medal or being praised as a hero to know he was doing what he ought.
Still. To be thought a coward . . . that had required a bit of thickening of his skin, to be sure.
He let himself in through the centuries-old wooden door, three inches thick, and closed it behind him with nary a creak. When one spent as many hours at home as did his abuelo, one had ample time to ensure that every hinge, latch, and seal was in perfect order.
“Dragón.”
Drake’s feet had been aimed toward the central marble staircase, but he redirected them toward Abuelo’s study, to the right of the entryway, and stepped through the open door with a smile. “Buenas tardes, Abuelo.”
His grandfather motioned him in with a wave of his hand, his attention still latched upon the papers currently on his massive desk. “You had a pleasant meal with your English friend?”
“Sí. Charles is always pleasant company. Poetry, the news, mutual acquaintances—always plenty to talk about.” And even morenotto talk about. Drake shifted his stack of books to his other arm.
Abuelo penned something onto the paper in his impeccably elegant script and finally looked up. He was the very figure of style—dark jacket cut to fit him perfectly, snow-white shirt beneath, perfectly matching his hair, a tie in a shade of deep red that set off his brows, still shockingly dark. Drake couldn’t recall ever seeing him out of his bedroom in anything less than formal dress. Some might find it odd, given that he never went out to show it off. But plenty of people paraded into this room throughout the day: business associates, servants, priests, neighbors. The world of Francisco Mendoza de Haro was full and colorful, and larger than one might think, given the walls he chose to keep around himself.
He didn’t smile. He rarely did, though his eyes seldom lacked for a twinkle of good humor. “I had a letter from your sister today. Did you?”
“A few of them caught up to me at once. I haven’t yet had a chance to read them.”
“Mm.” Abuelo reached for a glass, probably full of Madeira. “Then we will discuss her news after you have learned it.”
News? It was possible that Abuelo was only just learning of her employment, he supposed. Regardless, he was anxious to get up to his room where he could find Thoroton’s assignment for him in the Hugo. He smiled at his grandfather. “Very good. I’ll join you again shortly.”
Once upstairs, he let himself into the chamber that had been his since the day he was born, though it was another eight years beforehe ever stepped foot in it. Dot had the next one down—assigned upon her own birth, and only visited once. Still, it was cleaned every week, the linens changed, the styles updated occasionally, so that if ever she came again, it would be ready for her.
That was Abuelo. Perhaps because this house was his world, he made sure there was a place inside always prepared for those he loved.
Drake’s room had, over the years, taken on a bit of the character of a library. In addition to the desk, shelves lined an entire wall. To these he went now, filing most of the books he’d just purchased into their proper places. But he kept the Hugo in his hands and made himself comfortable at his desk. From a drawer he pulled out the dictionary that Thoroton would have used as a key, a fresh sheet of paper, and a pencil.
It took him half an hour to note each line of poetry that was underlined and use the page and line number to find the corresponding entry in the dictionary, but when at last he had the message worked out, he could only stare for a long moment.
Suspect Germans will be trying to use diseases to infect cereal intended for livestock—donkeys and horses. Discover where anthrax and glanders bacilli may be located. Watch foragents.
Drake expelled a long breath and rubbed a hand over his face. How could they justify this? How could a civilized nation really decide it was acceptable to deliberately spread deadly bacteria?
It had been done before, he supposed, recalling the story of blankets of smallpox victims being given to the natives in the colonies. But that hadn’t been on the command of the government; it had been the action of a few men with shadows upon their souls. This, though, would have come from the German High Command.
Only animals, it seemed. A fact they would surely emphasize if ever called to task for it. But how could they guarantee, with the current grain shortages, that cereal currently earmarked for animals wouldn’t get appropriated for human consumption? How could they know?
Or did they not care?
Drake’s eyes slid shut. He wasn’t entirely certain how he would goabout finding these bacteria cultures—those answers would require some questions he didn’t yet know to ask. But he would do some research, put out some feelers, inquire discreetly of some friends.
The clock in the hall chimed the hour, pulling him from those thoughts. Abuelo would be expecting him downstairs again soon—he’d better actually read Dot’s letters beforehand.
He pulled the packet of them from his pocket and unbound them, sorting them by date. The first detailed her initial days working in Room 40, how she was being trained to type, a bit about Lady Hambro. Chatty but also decidedly dishonest, as it said nothing about how difficult it had been to force herself from the flat, and Drake knew very well it was a fight she would have had with herself.
The second letter made mention of a new friend she’d made—Margot. This, perhaps, was the news Abuelo was mentioning. New friends were hard enough for Dot to come by that it qualified as noteworthy.Thank you, Father. He’d been mentioning his sister’s need for companionship in his prayers every night.
When he opened the third, a snapshot slid out as he unfolded the letter. He picked it up and sucked in a breath.
