“That might be too big a task for even me. But we will convince your father yet of the practical uses of Arabic poetry. Then you will join Victor at university. And you will write me how he is. I worry about him.” I paused. Henry offered two new futures. Good, sweet, dear Henry. “And if you meant it, about marrying me, you will need to talk to Victor. I know his mother always treasured the thought of Victor and me marrying, but he and I have never spoken of it. I do not know how he feels on the subject, and I could never enter into a betrothal without his blessing. We cannot hurt him.”

“I would sooner die than hurt him!” Henry said. But his face was alight with earnest excitement. “I think your idea will work, Elizabeth. I will go to university. And then…then we will both have a future to think about.” He smiled bashfully.

“Yes. A future.” I smiled, feigning demureness. My mind whirled as I bought him the hat with the meager pocket money I had managed to save. Victor would return, afraid of losing me, or give Henry his blessing. Either way, I would be saved from the constant threat of destitution.

I hoped, for Henry’s sake, that Victor would return. I suspected marrying me would be the great tragedy of Henry’s life. He deserved someone who could accept a proposal with a joyful heart, not a calculating and conniving mind.

Besides, I already knew how to be Victor’s. I did not want to learn how to be anyone else’s.

—

Justine was waiting outside for Mary and me when we arrived. How long she had been on the walk in front of the boardinghouse she did not say, though I suspected it was from the moment Frau Gottschalk unlocked the door.

The doctor would allow only one of us in to see Victor, so Mary took Justine to the bookshop while I sat at Victor’s side. He was already much improved, the color in his cheeks less alarming and his body able to sweat once again. The nurse showed me how to painstakingly get liquid into his mouth—enough that he would be hydrated, but not so much that he would choke in his insensible state.

After a couple of hours, I thought he was waking. He began muttering, his eyebrows drawing together in that expression that was as familiar to me as my own face.

“Too big,” he muttered. “Too big. Too willful. I made thee out of clay.”

I bathed his forehead and used this opportunity to get some water down his throat. He coughed, sputtering.

“No! Eve from a rib. The rib is smaller.”

I stroked his cheek and his hand shot up and wrapped around my wrist. His eyes opened, red and furious. He pulled me close, his urgency palpable. “Eve,” he said. “The rib.”