Page 24 of The Number of Love
Lukas stepped closer and reached to brush the hair out of hereyes. Then he jerked his hand away, muttering a French curse under his breath. “You are burning up! For heaven’s sake. You are not going anywhere but to bed.”
“No!” She had to go with him. If she could convince her muscles to move.
He pushed her down into the chair, a stern look on his face. “No argument. I can meet with Father Foster. You must get well. Do you understand?”
Well? As if there were such a thing today. “Lukas.” She blinked, but her head was still as hazy as the fog off the Thames. Sought the words, any words. “Hospital....” That wasn’t right. It had been too late for a hospital. Her pulse was gone. Gone. Not sixty-two. Not even thirty. Zero. Too long at zero.
Margot squeezed her eyes shut. “No. DID.”
Lukas crouched down. She heard him, felt him, smelled the scent of his soap and cologne. “I already spoke to the admiral,ma bichette.He will stop by when he can. He said to take as much time as you need.”
Of course he would. That wasn’t what she’d wanted either—and on a different day, she may have objected to Lukas calling her a doe. But she wouldn’t argue it now. She had something else to say. What was it? What were the words?Lukas. Hospital. DID. Eighteen. “Eighteen.”
Lukas shifted again. When she forced her eyes back open, she was aware of him looking at Dot. “Do you know what she means?”
Dot shook her head.
“No.” Margot clenched her teeth. She didn’t know what she meant either. Her insides itched. “I ... I don’t know.”
“Margot.” Lukas sounded, now, like Maman always had when Margot had spent too many hours up at her desk when she should have been sleeping or eating or stitching or knitting or running about with other girls her age. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “You are not going out with such a fever. Drink something. Rest. This is no time to have you fainting from exhaustion or dehydration. I am going to need you,ma bichette. I can make the decisionsabout the wake and the burial, but I will need you to sort through the rest with me.”
Wake. Burial. Those words weren’t right either, not for Maman. The words for Maman ought to have been ones likesmileandlaughandchideandworry. Always worry—worry for Margot, for Lukas, for Willa, for little Zurie. Worry for money and savings and the future. Worry for Gregory from the park and the other secretaries in the office and Mrs. Parsons from the flat two down from theirs. Worry for everyone but herself.
She couldn’t be gone. She couldn’t be.
Lukas brushed a lock of hair away from the side of Margot’s face. “Do you hear me, Margot? I know it is louder within your head than outside of it right now, but I need you to hear me.”
Her eyes hurt. Burned. For all their different ways, hedidknow her. Always had. She forced her head to dip down, to rise again.
“All right.” He pressed another kiss to her forehead and levered himself back up. “Dot will stay with you. I will come back when I can.”
He slid out of her central vision, out of her peripheral, out of her hearing with aclickof the 3E door. Three of six. Eighteen.
Eighteen.
Her eyes slid shut again, blocking out the window and the raindrops clinging to it and the clouds on the horizon and the sun chasing them away. Blocking out the faded wallpaper on the walls and the chipping paint on the sill and the radiator to the left of her chair. She could feel the heat coming off it, but still it was cold.
What was eighteen? The door, but no. That wasn’t it. That was just today. Eighteen was more than just today. Eighteen was ... Spain. Bilbao.Erri Barro. Wolfram. Anthrax.
She went even colder.Eighteen.
“Here.”
Margo raised her eyelids again, though it took three seconds when it should have taken a third of one. A cup steamed in front of her, held in a familiar hand wearing a familiar sleeve of a shirt with 10,360 stitches. Give or take twenty.
“Tea. With honey. It’ll soothe your throat.”
Eighteen.
Margot reached for the cup, though her hands weren’t exactly steady. She would drink it because Dot had made it for her. Because Lukas needed her to. Because dehydration could landheron the floor, unconscious, and she wouldn’t do that to them now. Because she needed to get well, back on her feet, and able to do what needed to be done.
But it wouldn’t soothe her. Nothing could soothe her.
Eighteen.
She cupped the mug in her hands and anchored it against her chest to keep from spilling it. Raised it for a slow sip. Cradled it against her again.
Eighteen.
