Page 8 of The Number of Love
Margot pressed her lips against a grin when the man scowled at the nameBubbles. The teasing had been merciless in the office ever since someone had realized that a painting of him as a child staring up at a bubble he’d just blown had been used in a soap advertisement years ago.
But despite the mutual bafflement between their new leader andthe staff, Commander Jameshadmanaged to organize them far more effectively over the course of the summer. Margot needn’t ask which basket she was to put her decrypts in; she had only to slide the stack into the one markedIntelligenceand slip back out.
Maman stood in the hallway waiting for her, their lunches in hand. “Outside, perhaps? The sun is shining again.”
And they’d better enjoy it while it lasted because all too soon autumn’s rains would be upon them. Margot nodded and accepted one of the brown paper bags. She tried not to ponder how little was in it. One would think that after three years at war—including a few months in Belgium, where food had been so scarce they’d been waiting in bread lines within the first several weeks—that she’d be used to the lack.
But one never really got used to it. Especially not with the newspapers full of images of newly arrived American troops.Doughboysindeed. To European eyes, all the Americans looked pudgy.
“I think I had better begin knitting that cardigan for little Zurie tonight. How big do you think she will be by Christmas?” Maman asked as they started down the stairs.
Margot sent her mother an amused look. “Well, in my considerable experience with small children, I think they probably grow at a rate of—”
“Never mind.” Maman laughed and bumped their shoulders together. “I forgot with whom I was speaking. Perhaps instead I should ask whatyoudecided to make for your niece.”
Margot shook her head. “I have decided that I love my niece enough that I will not make her anything.”
Maman turned wide eyes on her. “Margot!”
As if she’d neglect Zurie altogether. “Iboughther something instead. I found a beautiful collection of children’s stories by a lady named Beatrix Potter. Far lovelier than anything I could create.”
Maman faced forward and pressed her lips together. Whether in rebuke or to hold in a smile, Margot couldn’t tell from this angle. “Those fingerless gloves you knit last year were not entirely horrible. You are getting better.”
Margot laughed at the obvious lie. “No I’m not. One of these days you’re going to stop trying to turn me into a knitter.”
“It is an invaluable skill for a woman. Think how cold we would have been last winter without the clothing I made for us.”
“Indeed, it’s a wonderful skill foryouto have. But I don’t share it. If left to my own devices, I would simply have had to purchase a scarf.”
“And then we would not have been able to put so much back in our savings.” As they stepped outside, Maman drew in a long breath of the autumn air. “The war will surely be over soon. We will go home, and who knows how much money we will need to repair our house—if it is even still there in Brussels? Who knows if our accounts will be returned to us, or if the Germans will have somehow drained all the funds from our banks? We need every pence we can save, Margot.”
Margot’s fingers crinkled the paper bag. She opened her mouth, ready to defend the sum she’d spent on Zurie’s gift as being for the purpose of education and therefore worthwhile, but before she could speak, movement caught her eye. And more, numbers filled her head.
The Pythagorean theorem. Then Euclid’s proof of infinitely many prime numbers.
It was the Lord, calling her attention to something.
To what? She let her gaze shift over the scads of people milling around, trying to identify what had demanded her attention. She frowned when she spotted a feminine figure slinking around a corner.
Maman must have followed her gaze. She stopped in front of Margot, facing said corner, with her brows drawn. “I believe that is the newest secretary. Miss ... Felton?”
“Elton.” Miss Dorothea Elton. Margot hadn’t seen her since she delivered her to the admiral a week ago, but she recalled the name easily enough.
“That is right,oui.” Maman nudged her arm. “You ought to go and introduce yourself, Margot. That young lady could use a friend, I think. She does not seem to fit in well with the other secretaries.”
A mark in her favor. And the thought of following her around that corner made well-ordered numbers skip through her head, which wasall the confirmation she needed. With a nod, she left her mother’s side and hurried after the secretary.
Miss Elton didn’t seem to be aiming anywhere in particular. She moved at an amble, not a stride, letting her fisted hand bump into the white blocks along the wall at her side with every other step. The rhythm of it spoke to something in Margot.
It took her only twelve steps to catch up. “Hello. Miss Elton, isn’t it?”
Miss Elton startled and splayed a hand over her chest. “Oh! I beg your pardon. I didn’t hear you come up. Yes.” She held out that hand in greeting, but it was shaking. “Dorothea Elton. Dot, if you like.”
Was the shaking from the surprise? Margot couldn’t think so. Not given the suspiciously red rims to her eyes. She clasped her hand and offered a smile that she could only hope was friendly. “I’m called Margot. Margot De Wilde.”
“How do you do?” Dot’s smile was a bit faded, a bit strained.
Most people would expect such things to be politely ignored. Margot instead tilted her head. “Rough morning?”
