“Are you determined not to give this baby back?” a reporter shouted.

“I will not send her to die.” Pushing the revolving door with her shoulder, Nola went in. She felt an enormous sense of accomplishment; she had never before taken a public stance about a controversial issue. Unlike her orphanages or craniofacial foundation, where the residents or patients required discretion, saving the Dying Rooms’ babies would demand public exposure. And the first to be saved would be Lulu.

“I can’t believe the stunt you just pulled,” Roberta hissed. “I told you to shut up!”

“Don’t you speak to me that way.” Nola shot her an angry look and stormed inside. Hopefully, CNB Radio would soon seal its comeback offer. She’d be glad to see Roberta’s back.

Twenty minutes later, calmed and propped up in her crib, Lulu was sucking her bottle hungrily. The single tear that glistened on her black eyelashes filled Nola with renewed awe at the miracle of this creature that had come into her life. She wiped away the tear, then put the wet finger in her mouth. The devotion she felt was stronger than anything she had ever felt toward Jenna.

“I’m going to be a good mommy,” she whispered. “You just wait. I’ll talk with Mr. Hatley Ashford. He’ll be on our side. He must be. Right, Dumpling? Right?”

“Aat—taat—tat,” Lulu said.

“Right.” Nola laughed. She took a notepad and a pencil, stood in the middle of the room, and hummed her new “Flower Babies” song. There’s a place where babies are left to die.

With Lulu’s babbling echoing her notes, Nola kept on, scribbling down new lines. She made corrections, edited it some more, then sang it again. It would be great, she knew. The lyrics would still need perfecting, but the song was there. Although she dreaded facing Jean-Claude and his growing idiosyncrasies, they had a rehearsal scheduled. Might as well; she needed him to infuse her new song with his sorcery.

Wade was out—or avoiding her—which was a relief. Nola rummaged in her CD collection, found Chopin, and turned on the stereo system. The soothing notes of the “Impromptu” poured into the room. “You like music? You’ll have a life filled with it,” she told Lulu. “And love. Lots of love.”

Nola shed her clothes and went into the shower, leaving the bathroom door open to hear Lulu’s chattering and rattling of toys.

When she came out of the shower, Lulu was grabbing the bars of her crib, and, her face reddening, tried to sit up. Nola helped her, then called the embassy and spoke with Ashford’s secretary, asking him for an immediate appointment.