That had been close. Too close. Curse that man for his instincts—he’d quite obviously been searching the park the moment he stepped foot in it, and Das Gespenst had barely had time to move from his casual lounge on a bench to the cover of the tree.
The man was too observant. And had kept staring right at the tree where he’d hid—obvious from the way his voice traveled.
Good thing he’d been more set on flirting with the girl than with finding him, or he’d have had to run. Which would have been disastrous, as it would have brought even more attention.
Coughing into his glove, Das Gespenst emerged slowly from his cover, not trusting them not to turn back into the park at any moment. His chest still ached a bit from the cold that had kept him inside the last few days.
Blasted English damp.
But no one else came into the park, leaving him free to approach the Go board. Would she really teach him to play? On his board?
His fingers curled into his palm in protest. No. That wouldn’t do. Then they’d both be hovering around here, and he’d have to find a new place to blend into the shadows. Blighted man would no doubt spot him otherwise.
Well then. A slight change of plans, that was all. He pulled out the small velvet bags that held the stones and swept the white and black pieces into their respective pouches. His game with Margot De Wilde would just have to be paused for a while.
But that was all right. He’d already learned all he needed to know from her play anyway. The next step would have to be a little more . . . involved.
24
What if they were right?
Margot sat at the table in her empty flat, staring at the stack of newspapers but unable to make herself pick up another one. Never in her life had she let other people’s doubts stop her from doing what she knew was right.
But she didn’t know this time. There had been no whisper of beautiful proofs in her head. No nudging of the Pythagorean theorem telling her to follow, to walk, to do. To search newspapers for answers. To find an assassin.
She’d been clinging to her belief that it couldn’t be coincidence. But then yesterday Drake had responded to one of his sister’s jokes with, “You’re asking the wrong question, Dot.”
And the words had stuck fast in her mind. He hadn’t said those exact words to her, but it was what he’d been getting at that evening at her birthday dinner, wasn’t it? That she shouldn’t have been asking why God hadn’t sent her to help—that perhaps she couldn’t have. Perhaps there was a different way she ought to be looking at it.
You’re asking the wrong question. She tapped her pen against the table and let her eyes drift to the letter that had been waiting for her when she got home, as usual. Quite a stack of them had grown on her desk in the last few weeks, as November had marched into December. Each one somehow made her feel as though she knew Drake a little better. Understood the workings of his mind a bit more. He never wrote questions in them—those he seemed to save for their thrice-weekly meals together. They were filled instead with his insights. What he’d learned from each thing he asked her.
She pulled forward the stack and flipped through a few. Frowned. They were out of order. Why were they out of order?
She certainly had no one to blame for it other than herself—she must have been careless last night after she’d reread them. Not her usual state . . . but then, he muddled her. Made her think of a future she hadn’t before. Entertain ideas she’d always dismissed.
He knew how to ask the right questions. And with each day that went by, she admired that more. It wasn’t an easy thing, wasn’t really a natural thing.
It wasn’t a thing she was so sure she was good at. A few months ago, she would have claimed the opposite. Because a few months ago, God still spoke to her whenever she asked Him for direction.
With a huff, she pushed up from her chair. After dousing the gaslights, she strode to the window and pulled back the blackout curtains. Winter darkness, virtually untouched by the few dim streetlights here and there, stared back. She rested her forehead against the cold glass pane.
It seemed like the cold radiated into her flesh. But was it that, or was it the heat transferring out of her skin?
Was it Margot’s predisposition to see numbers in the chaos that had led to Maman’s death? Or Maman’s death that had made Margot see an order where there was none?
What if it was random? A heart attack?
But what if it wasn’t, and she gave up the search, and the killer struck again?
Groaning, she pushed her forehead off the window and rubbed at the cold spot on her head. She didn’t know what questions were right, what answers were worth pursuing. She just knew that the evening stretched out long and endless before her, and she didn’t want to spend it alone with her newspapers.
The duchess had sent round another journal. She could read that. Once upon a time, a free evening plus a new scientific journal equaled guaranteed happiness.
But that was when Maman would be there on the couch, knitting. Somehow having that company, even when silent, made a difference.
She glanced at the clock. It was only six. Early yet. She could go and spend the evening with Lukas and Willa and Zurie.
No. It was Tuesday. They were in Poplar, eating with Willa’s family at Pauly’s Pub.
She could take the tube to join them, but by the time she got there, it would be seven. They’d be finishing up, preparing for the hour’s ride home to get Zurie into bed.
Her gaze found the letter. Forcing her to admit that she didn’t really want to visit her brother tonight anyway. She wanted to see Dot.
All right, she wanted to see Drake. Maybe he knew what questions to ask.
Dot wouldn’t mind if she dropped by. Nor would Drake, she was sure. If anything, he’d give her one of those smiles. The kind that said she’d surprised him, and he liked it.
Before she could reason herself out of it, she grabbed her coat, hat, handbag, and keys and left.
The parallel lines of the hallway led to the parallel lines of the banister, which led to the parallel lines of the doorway, and then the curbs on the street. Never intersecting—barring calamity that brought it all crashing down.
She’d thought that’s what she wanted—to track a course parallel to everyone else. Always close, but always separate. Never intersecting.
But even parallel lines intersected in infinity—that was the non-Euclidean theory that allowed for revolutionary thoughts like the ones Professor Einstein proposed. Irrelevant to everyday life here on earth. But crucial in understanding the heavens.
Did she want to be confined to the earthly, then . . . or set her sights on the heavenly again?
She paused at the first corner, less to check for the traffic that wouldn’t be there after dark than to let that question whisper through her soul. It almost, nearly felt like the demand of an equation. Solve for x. Find the thing that was missing. Put it back.
A horn honked somewhere in the distance, and she hurried across the intersection. Habit had her turning into the park when she reached it. The Go board hadn’t been there since that day after Mass two Sundays ago. But she checked every day. It seemed odd that Williams hadn’t been out in so long . . . odd enough that on Sunday Margot had asked Holmes to give her the direction for the building he’d trailed him to. She’d written him a note, just asking after his health and if there was anything she could do for him. Saying she missed their game.
Her feet came to a halt at the little wrought-iron table. The game board was there again, with a fluttering slip of white paper. She reached for it with relief.
More writing marched across the small page in neat, parallel lines longer than normal. Not just the words of play. An actual note, the likes of which he hadn’t left since that first one.
Thank you so much for your concern, Miss De Wilde. It means the world to me. I have been under the weather—pneumonia, I fear. But I have missed our game too. I will make more of an effort to continue it. Your pray
ers would be appreciated. JW
She’d been right to be concerned, then. Sitting on the cold chair, she made the move in the game that she’d already had planned and then fished about in her handbag for something to write with. Flipped the note over and used her handbag, lumpy as it was, for a table.
You have my prayers.
She paused a moment, pen still hovering over the period. Habit made her say it—never had she turned down a request for prayers. But then, no one had really made such a request since Maman died.
She wouldn’t let the note be a lie. She wouldn’t.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she gripped the icy edge of the table and drew in a long breath. It shook. Eternal Father . . .
Her fingers bit harder, until she felt the many layers of paint dent under her nails.
Eternal Father. Please put your hand on Mr. Williams. Clear his lungs of any pneumonia. Touch him, Lord, and make him well. Eighteen, thirty-six, fifty-four . . .
She sucked in another breath. That wasn’t so bad.
Eighteen.
Her eyes flew open again. It wasn’t the Lord. She didn’t think so. It wasn’t that resonating voice deep within, just the memory of it. An echo.
An accusation.
She knew now who Eighteen was. And like a roulette wheel spinning, she watched numbers cartwheel through her mind. Only they weren’t just numbers. They were dates.
Breath catching again, she stood and darted off. Back to the street and down it, toward Dot’s building. Through the doors, up the stairs, to the door that had become nearly as familiar as her own. She knocked and forced her respiration to even out again.
After ten eternal seconds, the door opened, and Drake stood silhouetted against the lamplight. Smiling. As if she deserved his smile. “Margot. Dot and Red went out to see a moving picture—”
“Good.” She didn’t need her friend to hear this anyway. To blame her. Not yet. She pushed her way in and then spun a step from the door to face him. To face the truth. “It’s my fault you were shot.”
Drake closed the door slowly, silently, and turned to her without a twitch in his countenance to betray anything but pleasure to see her. “No, it’s not.”
“Of course it is.” Didn’t he see? She closed her eyes, and it was there, right there. Glaring at her. “The date. The date you were shot. The seventh of November, right?” Seven plus eleven. Eighteen. Always eighteen.
“Yes.” He drew the word into three syllables. Three times six. Eighteen.
Her hands shook. “The same day Maman died. When He wasn’t asking me to pray for her. He wasn’t telling me to go home. He was telling me to pray for you.”
Warm strength enveloped the shaking. His hands clasping hers. She’d forgotten her gloves, apparently. “I know. You told me.”
“But I didn’t. I didn’t tell you that I didn’t.” She forced her eyes open again, forced herself to look up at him. “I wouldn’t. I was so angry. She was gone, and all I could hear was Eighteen. I told Him no. I refused to pray. The very day—probably the very minute you were shot.”
His thumb stroked over her hand. “Good.”
“What?” He was supposed to be cross. Cross would make sense. Good certainly didn’t. “How could you—”
“I’m glad it happened the way it did. That I got sent home to recuperate. That I’m here now. With you.”
He was an idiot. But it didn’t make her itchy. It made her weak. Liquid. Blurring her eyes. She shook her head. “No. You could have been killed. I should have—”
“Margot.” He moved closer, tightening his grip on her hands. “I wasn’t. Focus on that.”
“But—”
“Are you the only one in the world with faith enough to pray for someone when you don’t know why?”
Faith enough. She’d had it, then. She thought. But had she, if she’d let it go so easily? Turned her back on him? On Him? “I certainly hope not.”
“Do you know for a fact that no one else was asked to pray when you said no? If perhaps someone else’s prayers kept that bullet from hitting anything vital?” One of his hands dropped her fingers. Touched her cheek instead. “God was in it. I know He was. He didn’t abandon me.”
“But I shouldn’t have either. It should have been me.”
“Mi alma.” His lips pressed to her forehead and lingered there, warm and sweet. “I love knowing that it was ever you. That our Lord wove that bond between us. It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t you that one time.”
“But it does. Of course it does.”
“It doesn’t.” His hand was so warm against her winter-chilled cheek. His face was so calm behind the mask of her tears. “Do you know what matters? That you wish it had been you.”
He shouldn’t be so kind about it. Not about this, when he could have been killed because of her stubbornness. Her anger. And she hadn’t even regretted it, not until just now, when she realized the dates had been the same. She hadn’t regretted it—she’d resented it. Her fingers went tight around his. “I’m sorry though. So sorry.” To think of the pain he was still clawing his way out of. How devastated Dot would have been if she’d lost him.
How empty her life would be right now if he weren’t in it.
“Margot.” His voice was just a whisper, bare and raw. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
It should have made her start. Jump away. List a few of the threats she tossed so easily at other men if ever they made the mistake of getting too close. But it didn’t. It just made her suck in a breath. “Why?”
His lips, a mere two inches from hers, smiled. “Because I don’t recall ever wanting to do anything more. Do you mind?”
“I don’t know.” She should. A kiss would lead to a different kind of courtship, wouldn’t it? One that was more than letters and codes and dinners with his sister. And she didn’t want a different kind of courtship. She liked this one. That wasn’t one. Except that it was. She’d always known it was.
His fingers moved on her cheek in an unfathomably soft caress. “I won’t, if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t not want you to. I just don’t know if I do want you to.” She wasn’t supposed to be like this. Befuddled and swamped by feeling.
He eased another inch closer. “How about an experiment, then?” His fingers released hers, but they didn’t move far. Just to her wrist. “Scientific. Mathematical. We’ll examine the increase of your pulse. The change in respiration. Dilation of your pupils. To determine if you want me to. What percent of change do you think equals a yes?”
How could he make her laugh even now? It should have changed the numbers, that laugh. Added in another element that threw off the equation. But somehow all it seemed to do was draw her closer to him. Perhaps it worked as a coefficient of the want, simply increasing the end desire rather than offsetting it.
Apparently it was her yes. Because in the next second his lips skimmed hers, and she didn’t want to pull away. She wanted to count the seconds of that first touch, how long her breath stayed balled up in her chest, determine the angle when he tilted his head and try to determine why it made the sensation that much more. She wanted to measure it all out and yet wasn’t sure if it was a second or a minute, whether she was tumbling or flying, leaning in or pulling away.
In. Definitely leaning in, because his arms slid around her. Hers slid around him. And it felt odd, because she’d never held a man like this. And yet it didn’t, because there was none of the unease she usually felt with a casual touch. Perhaps because it wasn’t casual. It was purposeful. Every contact—hand to back, arm to shoulder, lips to lips—meant something. And they all added up to one very clear conclusion.
Willa was right.
Blast. Now she pulled away, shaking her head as she backed toward the door. “No. I don’t want things to change. I like it how it is—how it was. Just . . . pretend that didn’t happen.”
He looked amused, drat it. “Impossible.”
“No it isn’t! We’ll just . . . erase it. Can
cel it out with an opposite. Rebalance the equation.” She waved a hand, as if the past minutes were a chalkboard she could erase with the gesture.
And now he was smiling, while she gestured like an idiot. “I don’t want to cancel it out.”
Her hands were shaking again as she reached for the door latch. “Well, I do.”
“What are you afraid of, Margot?”
Change. Being alone. Losing him. It would hurt all the worse if she let herself give in to this. She shook her head and pulled open the door. “I’m just your friend. Your sister’s friend.”
“I love you.”
He said it so easily. Calmly. Confidently.
Her panic was in proportion—an exponential one. “No. You don’t. You can’t. I don’t. Just . . .” But she didn’t know what she meant for him to do. She just knew she couldn’t do this. Because she’d lost her father, she’d lost her home, she’d lost her country, she’d lost her mother. She couldn’t lose anything else, but it always happened. Inevitably. And she didn’t have positives enough to offset all those negatives anymore. She’d run out, run dry, run empty. Run away.
“Margot!”
She nearly tripped on the threshold, but running was her only option. So she’d take it.
25
Margot!” Drake picked up the handbag she’d dropped as she’d groped for the doorknob and ran after her. He wasn’t as fast as he used to be. His side objected, but not loudly enough to stop him. He couldn’t let her leave like that. She could try to disappear from his life.
Worse, she could fall headlong into the fear he’d seen flashing through her dark eyes like lightning. Let herself believe the only way to outpace it was to deny even possessing what it threatened to take away.
He reached the door to the building just as it was clicking shut from her exit and swept out onto the sidewalk in time to see her plow into someone on the corner.
It didn’t slow her down for long.
But it slowed Drake. Because it wasn’t just someone. It was someone in a grey overcoat, with longish dark hair, a trim beard, and an inquisitive slant to his brows. Someone who, upon spotting him, took off at a run on the street perpendicular to this one.
The Number of Love Page 27