Dot hit one last key with a flourish and then whipped the paper from the machine and tucked it into a basket. A moment later she’d grabbed her food and coat, too, and they continued down the hallway and to the stairs. Drake never took the lift up—he still seemed to think he had to use every possible moment to stretch himself, exercise, and strengthen.
And there he was on the stairs, talking to Montgomery, their Fighting Padre. Laughing with him. Margot’s feet slowed. Holmes caught sight of them and hurried to greet Dot, but Margot hung back so that Drake could finish his conversation.
How did he do it so easily? She leaned against the railing and let herself study him. The line of his spine, of his shoulders, the way he always kept his focus on the person with whom he was speaking. The smile that bade the other smile back. The questions that inevitably drew the truth out of them.
He’d taken to wearing his naval uniform again, making him look like he had the day he’d first stepped into her path and asked her if she had a name. “He cuts a fine figure,” one of the secretaries had said with an appreciative grin just the other day.
He’ll soon be going. That was what the uniform said to Margot. He was well again, sooner than the doctors had expected. Healed. They’d already granted him medical leave until after Christmas, but that was only six days away. He’d be sent back into the field after that. Back to Bilbao. Maybe even in time to help with the capture of the wolfram on the Erri Barro, if there were more delays—which seemed likely. He’d be leaving her.
And she’d miss him.
How does she do it? Drake had slipped just inside Room 40 while he waited for Hall, so that he could watch her while she worked. He’d done it before, whenever he could. And smiled to realize she didn’t even notice.
She always sat at her desk just like she did now, so intent upon the papers before her that the rest of the world might as well not exist. Pencil flying, columns of numbers queuing up and marching down the page in parallel lines. It took her seconds to render code into plain script. Seconds. No doubt she worked through his letters just as fast, or faster—heaven knew his code wasn’t as sophisticated as the ones she rattled off the names for so easily. 7500, 13040, 18470, 89734.
Her mind amazed him. The way she processed the world, turned it all into theorems and equations and endless strings of numbers. Dot was right—she had to be the most intelligent person he’d ever met. She outdid him by far. Held her own here among England’s brightest. Would no doubt achieve great success outside the OB someday too.
He couldn’t quite imagine what life would be like if ever she agreed to marry him. He had no idea how many years it might take to even convince her to do that. There would be headaches in the meantime, and heartaches, and countless lonely nights when his arms ached for her.
But it didn’t matter how long it took. He’d never be able to look at another girl like he looked at her.
“Elton. Thank you for waiting.”
He started and turned with a smile for Hall, not really minding getting caught staring at Margot. “Not a hardship, sir.”
The admiral smiled and motioned him to follow. “You’ve made great strides with her, I’ve noticed.”
“Have I?” Sometimes he wasn’t sure. She’d still never once mentioned his letters. She never leaned closer to him when she didn’t have to. She’d certainly never said she loved him—he wasn’t sure she ever would, even though it may be true. Words weren’t her language.
Perhaps someday she would say it, somehow, in numbers.
Hall chuckled. “She’s given up arguing when people refer to you as her young man. I would count that as a victory, were I you.”
Drake’s lips twitched up. “And so I shall.”
The admiral led the way into his office and motioned him to close the door behind him. “She just provided a decrypt that will interest you. They have finally finished loading the wolfram onto the Erri Barro. She is finally scheduled to leave port.”
Drake’s pulse kicked up as he took a chair. “And we’re ready to intercept?”
“We are. Whenever she enters open waters, we’ll set upon her.”
He’d wanted to be there, part of the prize crew. And yet he wasn’t at all sorry he was here instead. “Are they certain she’s seaworthy? I’ve seen her, sir—she’s in sorry shape, and that’s a heavy load for her to carry.”
“Hence the many weeks of repairs. But I imagine we’ll soon know how she fares. Now.” Hall pulled a stack of clipped papers forward and slid it across his desk to Drake. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long to compile this information. We’ve been able to discover precious little about this Jaeger chap. But I’ve had a team combing through all entrance records, looking for him or his compatriots. There are half a dozen or so who could well be working with the Germans. A few have been detained already, a few have left the country again already. But these are still at large.”
Throat tight in anticipation, Drake took the papers and flipped through it. Looking not just for Jaeger, but for the man in the grey overcoat.
His fingers paused on the fourth page. “This could be him.”
“Jaeger?”
“No. The man outside my building, the one who ran from me. The height, weight, and age are right, and the description matches.” Tall—six foot four. Not too many men could answer to that. He frowned. “Niall Walsh. Irish?”
“Claiming to be an American of Irish descent, but I have my doubts. The story he gave the custom agents didn’t check out.” Hall blinked and tapped a finger to his desk. “What’s more, he’s vanished. He was apparently on board the Boynton when she was sunk, was rescued, hospitalized . . . and then nothing after his release. He let his flat go afterward, but I can’t track where he’s gone. No hotels or boardinghouses in the city have seen him, but he hasn’t left the country again, so far as we know. My people are checking other cities, but thus far, nothing.”
“Mm.” He kept reading, that page and the final two. Sighed. “None sound like Jaeger himself to me. But that supposedly Irish chap could be the one watching my flat for him. If we find him . . .”
“Right. I’ll put a few more lads on it.” Hall made a note and gave him a distracted smile. “I believe that’s all. Oh, except that I did send Thoroton a note this morning with the good news from your doctor, that you’ve been given the all-clear to return to the field. He’ll be expecting you by the new year.”
“Excellent.” He said the word easily enough. And hoped it sounded truthful. He was looking forward to seeing Abuelo again and getting back into the work he was so well suited for, doing something other than reading all day.
But . . .
Hall angled him a knowing look. “She’ll be here when you return, Elton.”
Apparently he was utterly transparent. Drake gave him a sheepish smile and stood. “Yes, sir. I know.” And every man had to say farewell to his sweetheart these days, it seemed. He was nothing special. He ought to simply be grateful to have had this much time with her. And that he wasn’t being sent to the front lines. Just to Spain. Back to his grandfather’s luxurious house and Thoroton’s efficient team.
But he was going to miss her.
27
Is it too soon, do you think?” Dot worried her lip between her teeth—and still was smiling. “I shouldn’t be even hoping for such a thing quite yet, I know. And he’s only been at Lord Whitby’s factory for a few weeks. But he’s already been promoted once. It seems right.”
Were it anyone but Dot speculating on whether or not her sweetheart meant to propose to her over Christmas, Margot would have rolled her eyes and strode away over the parade grounds and home without a backward glance. But it was Dot. And so she rolled her eyes and stayed at her side, happy enough to take the path that would lead her to Dot’s flat instead of her own. “Of course it’s right. Does it even require conversation?” Because even with Dot, she didn’t quite know how to have such a conversation. What if she wanted to start talking about weddings? Gowns? Flower arr
angements? Margot shuddered at the very thought.
“When I’m with him . . . he makes me feel as though I’m the only girl in the world. As though none of my quirks matter in the least. That we can stay in or we can go out, and it’s all the same so long as we’re together.”
“Well, it would be stupid to consider marriage to someone who didn’t think that way, wouldn’t it?” Margot pulled her scarf a bit tighter and tucked her hands into her coat pockets. The air had gotten downright icy throughout the day and was bitter now, with newly fallen night around them. They might actually get a bit of snow if warmer air didn’t sweep in off the ocean and return them to last month’s relative temperance. “Though you can be sure Red, at least, isn’t going anywhere. There’s no reason to rush into anything. Why not enjoy the courtship?”
And give Margot a few more weeks or months of friendship before they spun into their different world. She didn’t want to think of how everything would change once Dot got married. Would she even keep working at the OB? Or would she settle happily into the new role of housewife, tending the little flat Holmes had so proudly invited them all to the other night, and leave this world behind?
She’d be gone. Into Chiswick instead of Chelsea. Drake would be in Spain. A quick close to a short chapter. Do you remember the autumn of 1917, Lukas and Willa would say to each other, when Margot actually had a friend and a beau? Whatever happened to that?
She shouldn’t pity herself. She must be happy for Dot. Happy for Drake, that he would return to the work he loved. Happy for Holmes, that asking for spare change on a street one night had somehow led to a solid position under the Earl of Whitby, a new home, and a woman who loved him.
Margot’s fingers traced the edge of a florin in her pocket. She’d had a role in that, however small. She’d done the right thing even without any numbers to tell her it was the right thing, and she’d made a difference in a man’s life. In her friend’s life too.
Still, she felt the cold as she walked beside Dot. Because they weren’t moving in parallel lines at all. It had looked that way for a while, but now she could clearly see the distance between them widening. Their paths would diverge, not intersect in infinity. Perhaps they had intersected at that one point, the day they met, and had been at such an acute angle that it had just seemed for a while to be equidistant.
Movement caught her eye, a flash of deeper darkness, even as Dot said, “What in the world is—”
And then a scream cut her off. First a masculine one, more a battle cry than a scream. And then Dot’s piercing shout for help.
Margot spun toward the movement, letting her bag fall to the ground, trying to assess the situation that looked like nothing but a blur. A dark-colored coat, a man’s hat, Dot’s flailing limbs.
In one-eighth of a second, the details came into focus: the man’s shaggy dark hair, his trim beard that hid a nearly delicate mouth, curled back in a snarl. He’d materialized from the alley like a specter.
Williams.
She hadn’t seen him in weeks. And never like this. The stoop was gone, as was the distant look to his eyes. Intent gleamed there now. Malicious intent. It glinted wicked and bright off the blade that Williams held aloft, aimed at Dot.
Why? Why would he do this?
A quarter of a second for it all to process. That was all she could afford. Then Willa’s voice in her ear, teaching her how to walk the streets safely at night, alone. “If anyone ever attacks you, don’t try to recoil. Meet them, move into them. They never expect that. Then use their momentum to keep pushing them in the same direction they’d been going. Don’t try to knock them back, especially if it’s a man. Use their strength against them.”
She’d practiced on Lukas, who had proven a terrible combat partner, and then on Barclay, who had been the one to train Willa to begin with. He’d worked with Margot until she had the move down, applauding her when she’d sent him tumbling over and again to the floor, not minding the bruises.
It came back to her now. She pushed Dot out of the way and met Williams’s advance, grabbing his knife-wielding arm rather than trying to avoid it. Pulling on it, pulling on him, wrenching the arm around as she stepped past him.
He grunted in pain, and the knife clattered to the ground. Margot was vaguely aware of Dot scrambling for it but more intent upon turning to face him again as he spun on her.
There was no moonlight to show her his face, just the weak gas lamps that didn’t quite reach them. She couldn’t make out his expression, but he hesitated a second before making a rush at her.
She stepped forward again, met him, and brought a knee up into his groin that sent him to the ground.
“Run!” Dot, with that wicked knife in her hands and Margot’s bag over her shoulder, grabbed her by the arm and jerked her away.
Probably the best advice at this point, while Williams was immobilized. And he was coughing, wheezing with every groan. That would buy them another minute or two that might offset how much slower Dot’s pumps would make them.
They ran.
Familiar streets sped by, but they didn’t slow until they reached Dot’s building, other than to look back and make sure he wasn’t giving chase. They were both gasping for breath as they pushed through the doors and stumbled up the steps, neither of them accustomed to such a pace.
Dot’s hands shook as she fumbled her keys out of her own bag. Not trembling, but actual, violent shaking. She dropped the keys. She choked on a sob as she tried to pick them up and couldn’t seem to get hold of them.
Margot moved forward, ready to help, but the door opened even as she did, and a frowning Drake filled it. “Dot? What’s the matter?”
Margot pulled her friend up rather than the keys and propelled her into her brother’s arms. Then she fished the slips of metal off the ground and followed the siblings inside.
“Mugger,” Dot managed between sobs.
“What? Are you all right?” He moved his wide eyes from Dot to Margot.
Margot sucked in a much-needed breath, not ashamed to admit there was a bit of a tremor in her own hands, now that the danger had passed. “We’re all right. We got his knife from him. He didn’t take anything, and he didn’t hurt us.”
At the word knife, Dot pulled away from Drake, fingers pressed to her lips. She let the two bags—her own and Margot’s—fall to the floor and made a mad dash toward her bedroom.
“Dot!”
“Give her a minute.” Drake touched a hand to her arm to stop her from following. But his frown furrowed deeper in his brow than she’d ever seen it as he looked at the door she’d slammed shut behind her.
Margot wrapped her arms around her middle. And when Drake moved his hand to her back instead of her arm, she leaned into him just a little. He apparently took it as permission to pull her to his chest, and she didn’t mind that either. Her arms were trapped against her stomach, between them, but she buried her face in his uniform’s shoulder. “We’re all right,” she felt the need to say again. And then a third time.
“I know. Praise the Lord.” He pulled away, framed her face in his hands, and pressed a firm kiss to her forehead. Then he stepped away, his own hands shaking. Putting space between them when she knew well he wanted to eliminate it instead.
This was Drake’s love.
He heaved a breath and passed a hand through his hair. “Tea. The kettle is on. You need tea.”
She didn’t need tea. But she’d take it, and she’d drink it, and maybe the warmth of it would chip away at the cold inside. So she nodded.
While he moved toward the kitchen, she slid out of her coat. And then, armed in the cardigan Maman had made her that she’d worn as an extra layer on this cold day, she bent down to retrieve the fallen bags. And her trembling hands pulled out that vicious-looking knife that Dot had apparently slid into Margot’s handbag at some point.
She set it on the table, where the lamplight could flash down its blade and gleam golden against the wooden handle. She was no expert, but it looked
costly. Well made.
“This was his weapon?” Drake set two cups on the table and moved to her side, staring at the knife.
She nodded. And slid a few inches closer to him. Partly for him. Partly for her.
Drake reached for it, obviously more familiar with such weapons than she was, given how easily he flipped it this way and that, testing its balance, she guessed. “It’s a beautiful piece.”
Margot blinked at him. “It’s a weapon. It isn’t beautiful. Equations are beautiful. Sunsets are beautiful. Poetry and music are beautiful. Knives—”
“It’s the mathematics of it that makes it so. The symmetry. The angles. The perfect ratio of weight between the tang and the tip.” His smile flashed only briefly.
He held it closer. Her gaze settled where his had, on the metal closest to the wood. “There’s something etched into the guard.”
She leaned closer, even rested her fingers on his so she could steady it where she needed. “It looks like d-e-r something. V-a-m . . .” She straightened. “It’s German. Der Vampir.”
Drake’s brows flew upward. “Is that a cognate? ‘The vampire’?”
Margot nodded. And shuddered. “A morbid name for a blade.”
“Certainly not one you’d carve into a kitchen knife.” He set it back down and rubbed a hand up and down her back. “How did you manage to disarm him?”
“Willa and Barclay taught me. Self-defense, they say, is every girl’s best friend.”
His hand hooked over her shoulder. Held tight. “Remind me to thank her on Sunday. Can you tell me what happened? Describe the man?”
She nodded. But somehow, with his arm so comfortably around her and the warmth of the flat seeping in, she became more aware every second of how weak her knees felt. And how much she didn’t want to admit to him that he’d been right to wonder about Williams. “Could we sit first? With that tea?”
“Of course.”
He carried the cups while she moved to the couch, casting a long look at Dot’s closed bedroom door. “Should we check on her?”
The Number of Love Page 29