Some part of him hadn’t believed all the stories about this flu. Not until now. The keening from upstairs, the woman falling apart in his arms, demanded he admit the truth.

He buried his face in Lily’s hair. “I’m so sorry.” The words came out in Russian. He couldn’t convince his tongue to correct itself and didn’t imagine it really mattered. The words meant nothing anyway. She probably wouldn’t even hear them. His arms would speak more loudly, more clearly.

Another sob tore through her, sounding as though it carried her very soul with it. Her knees buckled, though she didn’t fall. She couldn’t, not as firmly as he held her, as tightly as she gripped him. And he wouldn’t let her. Instead, he scooped her up and carried her into the drawing room, to the familiar sofa with its faded pattern, where they’d sat together countless times. Her arms slid around his neck for the journey and showed no signs of letting go when he leaned down to try to put her on the cushions.

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.