He hasn’t heard me. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to hear me, either. “It’s not about money,” I say. “She’s got a wasting sickness, and it’s too far gone. The Salem Witch couldn’t fix this.”
“She’s carrying my baby.” The words choke out of him.
I look out the window at the people walking past. Vague expressions and easy strides show how smooth life is for them. None of them know that there’s a guy dissolving just inches away from them on the other side of the glass.
“I’m sorry,” I say. A long silence hangs between us. I can feel the heat coming off his back as he struggles not to cry, like his pain is radiating around him in a hot cloud. “How far along is she?”
“Four months,” he replies. His voice is thin and tinny. He’s calm again, having bit back the enormous helping of hurt he’s been served. He’s an Outlander. He’s probably had plenty of practice losing people he loves. I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s about to lose two more. His woman probably won’t last another week—too soon to try to save the baby.
He stands up and leaves the café before I can ask him any more questions. We’ve already been talking for longer than we should, and we’ve been sloppy about it. The seating area is starting to get crowded and we may have already been overheard. Still, I wish he hadn’t left. Something isn’t right about that woman. Her sickness is so advanced I can’t see how she could have been well enough to get pregnant to begin with. Her disease has many causes, but the result is the same. Cells divide at an alarming rate, but they are dummy cells that do nothing for the body. All they do is reproduce and spread while the person wastes away. If it’s caught early enough it’s easy to cure, but if it isn’t, the end is horrible. What this poor woman had was beyond anything I’d seen in a living body. Her cells were so shot through, as if all of them had been riddled with tiny bullets. It’s hard to believe she isn’t dead already.
I’m still thinking about the doomed woman and baby when I lift my eyes and look out the window.
Lillian is looking right at me.
I jump up and hear a clatter as my chair and the table next to me tip over onto the floor.
She’s just staring at me—wild eyed, confused, and frightened.
I’m vaguely aware of the fact that I’m causing a scene as I race to the door, my arms paddling over shoulders and heads as I swim against the tide of people coming in for their morning tea. Mirabelle calls my name, but I’m already out on the street.
Lillian is running away from me, bounding along on her toes in her peculiar way. She runs like a deer, buoyant and graceful, and she’s surprisingly fast for someone so fragile. I chase her, even though it doesn’t make any sense. I haven’t laid eyes on her in a year and I can’t stop myself from following her.
This is crazy. She’s darting from street to street, zigzagging and backtracking like she has no idea which way to go. Where’s her guard? Her mechanics? And what the hell is she wearing?
The streets seem impossibly full of pedestrians all of a sudden, and I lose her. Clever thing—she must have ducked down somewhere. I’ve just passed a nearly deserted alley and I double back. I see a drainage grate up ahead. The refuse around it has been recently disturbed. I slow down to a walk, trying to gather myself. I need to think. Why is Lillian hiding in a filthy hole? And why do I care?
I take a deep breath and let it out, praying for strength. Why is this happening today? Waking with Lillian on my mind is an everyday occurrence, so why did the Great Spirit pick today to twist the knife?
“You know you can’t hide from me, Lillian,” I say. She doesn’t respond, so I reach into her hiding place and scoop her out with my hands. Her skin is clammy and cold. I can’t remember her skin ever being cold before.
I place her on her feet but I’m not sure she’s going to be able to stand on them for much longer. Her eyes can’t focus and her head is lolling on her neck. Her cold skin heats up in an instant, and now she’s burning.