Though still anxious about our plan, I find my home at his side. His right arm enwraps my shoulders, holding me close. I turn to Evelien to persuade her to join, wanting to keep her warm, but already she’s scuttling over. Embracing Marie, she lays her head on my lap.

From the rhythm of Arie’s breathing, woven with Evelien’s and mine, I savor what comfort I can while bracing for the hours ahead. An endless night of sitting and waiting and eyeing the obscured windows for warnings.

Chapter 76

The blast of a gun jolts me awake.

Was it real or from a dream? My gaze zips around the room. I strain to remember where I am. No longer in Ziegler’s house with a pistol pointed at my head, I’m here safe beside Arie, who’s dozed off, same as Evelien. On the floor, the girl is nestled at my side like a kitten.

Dawn’s early light hazes the air. I urge myself to relax against Arie, grateful to have survived the night uncaptured, before I glimpse my palm. It’s coated with a rusty-brown substance—Arie’s dried blood from earlier. But I’d wiped that off by the canal. It must be Ziegler’s. Or gracious, is it mine? My memory flashes on the knife I’d swung, the bullets that flew, my hair grabbed and body thrown.

I tug back my coat sleeve, tracing smudged streaks down the underside of my forearm. Frantically I pat my limbs, then my torso in search of wounds I somehow missed.

There are none. A relief, until I think of Arie’s left arm. I rush to assess it, terrified of how much blood he might have lost. But the makeshift bandage, though tainted, remains in place, snug and knotted.

Glancing down, I notice a hole. At the left side of his jacket, it’s the kind created by a moth. Too closely, however, it resembles those in his sleeve. Bullet size.

Apprehensive, wary of disturbing him—as surely it’s nothing—I slowly lift the bottom flap of his jacket. Removed from his trousers, suspenders encircle his waist, holding a wadded undershirt tightly to his side. The cotton fabric is soaked with shades of red and brown.

I sit upright, comprehending a second wound. He’d added pressure to it himself, but how without rousing me in the process? Unless he did it at the Zieglers’, aware that all this time he was—

“Arie…” My voice scarcely amounts to a whisper.

I give him a nudge.

His eyes are serenely closed, his cheek set comfortably on his shoulder. But there’s a difference about him. A paleness that churns my stomach.

I prod a bit stronger.

Nothing.

With trembling fingers, I touch his face. His ice-cold skin causes my hand to retract.

No…

No, no, no.