Telephone. She had to call for assistance.

Lukas. 1532. He would know what to do.

Hospital. They could help.

DID. The admiral always had answers.

Eighteen.

She pushed to her feet, knocked her knee against the chest of drawers, slid out the door, hit her elbow against the frame.

Telephone.

Lukas.

Hospital.

DID.

Eighteen.

She lifted the receiver, listened for the operator. Telephone.

“This is the operator. How may I direct your call?”

Lukas. “Kensington–1532.” Hospital. DID. Eighteen.

“One moment, please.”

One moment. All it took for a pulse to disappear. For a heart to give up. For the whole world to change. Margot stood rooted to the spot, her eyes scarcely even blinking. They remained fixed on the window, where morning’s light was grey and heavy and soaked with autumn rains that distorted the world outside.

Distorted the world inside.

Telephone. Lukas. Hospital. DID. Eighteen.

“Hello?”

“Lukas. Hospital. DID. Eighteen.”

“What? Margot, is that you?”

She couldn’t blink. She could only stare at the rain-soaked world beyond the rain-spattered window through her rain-soaked eyes. “C’est Maman.” No other words would come.

Telephone.

Lukas.

Hospital.

DID.

Eighteen.

Maman. . . .

“Margot. Margot, come away from the window.” Lukas’s hand rested on her shoulder. Gentle. Firm. Both at once, in different respects.

“Margot, come away from the window.” How many times had Maman said that to her, trying to draw her back into the world of which she wanted her to be a part? Eighty-one. Eighty-one times. But not lately. Because lately Margot hadn’t had much time to stare out windows. To calculate the number of bricks in the buildings across the street. To wonder. She’d been too busy. Always busy.

The rain had slowed, though it hadn’t stopped. The pedestrians were splashing through puddles as they hurried about in search of their midday repast. Every time Margot breathed out, a cloud of vapor settled on the cold pane of glass and then shrank again as she drew in new breath. She could calculate the rate at which it disappeared if she wanted.

But what did it matter?

“Margot.” The hand on her shoulder squeezed. “Come, ma sœur. You need not stay here. Come home with me—we have canceled the concert tonight. You can let Willa fuss over you.”

“No.” Droplets still clung to the windowpane. Not racing along their tracks now and joining with other drops in a mad dash for down, but just clinging there. Stubborn and small and sure to evaporate into the air if ever the sun decided to break through the clouds.

“Margot.” Lukas wrapped his arms around her and, despite her inability to move even a muscle to accommodate him, held on tight. His breath rasped, and his chest heaved. This was how her brother mourned. How he had mourned when their father died, when the world had crumbled even before war had shattered what was left.