The last thing he wanted was to force her to release him, so he recalculated. Turned. Sat himself, letting her curl into his lap. Not exactly an appropriate posture under normal circumstances, but this was hardly normal. And it let him cradle her against his chest, run a hand up her back. Keep whispering words that would mean nothing to her. In Russian. In French. A few in English that would sound just as meaningless.
He pressed his lips to her forehead at one point, when fear overtook grief. Cool. No fever. The flu that had stolen her sister didn’t have hold of her, not yet. Not ever, if he had anything to say about it.
He didn’t, he knew that. All he could do was beg God to insulate her from it. For her family’s sake, for her own, for his. The prayers came in every language he knew too, the words a chaotic jumble that he hoped would make more sense to the Lord than they did to him.
He held her until the sobs turned to gasps. Until the shaking slowed to more properly termed trembling. Even then, her arms didn’t relax, and she didn’t lift her head from the home it had found against his neck.
“This is—my fault.” Her words were ragged. One of her hands moved, though not far. Only enough to shove at her hair and then fall to his chest and grip his shirt.
She’d utterly failed at getting her hair out of her face. It stuck to her cheeks, glued there by tears. He eased the strands free of the mess and smoothed them back. For a moment, he debated digging out his handkerchief to give to her, but it was in the pocket against which she was pressed, and that would require more movement than he was willing to risk. “Do not be ridiculous, milaya. You did not bring this illness to London.”
“No. But I—I must have brought it—home.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and a new keening gathered in her throat. “From the—hospital.”
“No, milaya. You cannot blame yourself. It is everywhere, you know this. In the train stations, on the streets—in her school. We have had a few cases even in the OB. Your father or Clarke could have come in contact with it.” He shook his head and let it rest against hers. “There is no blame.”
She didn’t rebut his claim, not in words, but he knew his logic hadn’t found a hold on her heart. Not yet. He could only pray it would eventually. Pray she wouldn’t fall victim to the guilt that could eat a person whole and leave one’s spirit gaping, prime fodder for bitterness.
He had no idea how long she battled the tears, sometimes letting them have their way, sometimes fighting them back. Time didn’t much matter. He would send word to Hall when he could, but he had no intention of returning to the office today. He intended to stay right here until someone told him to leave. He couldn’t bear to let this family, this woman suffer alone.
After a while, she did shift, though, sliding to a seat beside him—primarily, he suspected, so she could dig her handkerchief out of her pocket. Mrs. Goddard slipped in not long after with water and tea. She didn’t say anything—her face looked as worn and streaked with tears as Lily’s—but she met Zivon’s gaze, nodded toward the tray, and then glanced at Lily. A clear command that he was to make sure she at least had a drink. He nodded his understanding.
Lily held out a hand to keep the housekeeper from leaving again. “Mama? I should go and check on her.” She didn’t look like she had enough energy to carry out the task.
Mrs. Goddard came closer, smoothed back Lily’s hair, and dropped a kiss on her forehead. Something he suspected she hadn’t done in a decade or more, as proper as she usually was. “I just came from there, luv. Your mother cried herself to sleep, so leave her to rest. The fever’s no worse than it was an hour ago.”
Zivon tightened his hold on Lily. Mrs. Blackwell was ill? He hadn’t heard that part. But it must be why Lily had been at home already today.
Mrs. Goddard patted his cheek too. “Let your young man here take care of you for a bit. We can’t have you getting sick now. Drink something. Eat, if you can. You’ve had no more than a few bites all day.”
For the housekeeper, Lily nodded. But as soon as she left, she shook her head. “I can’t eat.”
He could understand that. But he got up and poured a tall glass of cool water. “Drink, at least. You need it.”
She took the glass from him, sipped at it. Her gaze remained glazed, latched on nothing. “She can’t be gone. She can’t. She was well this morning. Worried for Mama but perfectly fine.”
“I know. It makes no sense.” No more sense than getting the news his mother had been trampled to death in a riot. Or seeing his fiancée dead on his doorstep. No more sense than realizing his brother had perished trying to find him.
He shook his head. “I wish I could take this for you, milaya. That I could carry it instead.” Just as he wished he could have found a way to be here, to meet her still, without it requiring the deaths of his own family.
A moment later, heavy steps dragged their way toward the entrance. Zivon looked up, wincing when Clarke stumbled his way in like a drunkard and collapsed onto a chair. His eyes were every bit as unfocused and swollen as Lily’s. Zivon had never seen his shoulders so bowed.
“The doctor is finally on his way.” Clarke let out a little puff of breath that was more incredulity than laughter. “As if he can do anything now.”
“He couldn’t have done anything before either.” Lily took another sip of water. “Not when it gets into the lungs.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
Clarke scrubbed at his face and then leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. “She was in perfect health yesterday. We were to go for a walk this evening. We had plans to see a show this weekend.” His fingers curled into his hair. “I was going to marry her. I have a ring. I was going to ask just before my mother arrived, so she could celebrate with us.”
Lily’s water glass shook until she lowered it to rest against her leg. “She would have said yes. She loved you.”
Lifting his head just enough to reveal his eyes, Clarke nodded and looked over at them. “We’d said those words, at least. I’m glad of that.” His gaze focused on Zivon. “How do we do this? How do we . . . keep on living?”
Something he had done such a poor job of that he really shouldn’t even try to answer. Except he did know how. He knew the words. He’d just been executing them all wrong. “We must be still—not our hands and feet, but our minds. And know that He is God. That He has not changed. That the same Lord who loved us when all is well loves us still when all is lost. His promises are as true today as they were yesterday. He has been enough to see people through the worst since the dawn of time. We must trust that His love is enough to see us through now.”
He didn’t know if the words could mean anything yet to these two people who meant so much to him. But for the first time in six months, a trickle of peace washed over the rocks of his soul.
THURSDAY, 11 JULY 1918
Lily sat on the cushions on the floor, her head resting against the shiny spot of her wallpaper. The room was dim, despite it being the middle of the day. Her curtains were drawn against the disrespectful daylight, and she’d shunned the light switches.
Brightness had no place here.
Light couldn’t accomplish anything anyway. All this last week, the sun had shone, but it had done nothing to help her see. Her gaze refused to really take in anything. Not at the funeral, the church, the graveside. Not when Zivon gripped her hand so tightly it seemed he was trying to hold her in this world by force. Not when the crush of people descended, or when they left, taking their black clothes with them but leaving their shadows behind.