worse, there's nothing I can do for her. It's in God's hands now.”
Eliza Cary sobbed, and Julia sniffled.
The doctor rose, patted Christopher hard on the shoulder, and removed
himself from the room.
Gloomy silence entombed the formerly cheerful partygoers again.
“Let's pray,” James suggested. As one they moved to form a circle,
surrounding Christopher and his wife and grasped hands. “Lord…” he began,
but his sonorous preaching voice wavered, and when he continued, it was in a quieter, more subdued tone. “Lord, heal Katerina, protect the baby and
strengthen Christopher.” He made a choking sound. “Amen.” After a shaky
breath, he added, “Sorry, Christopher. I just… I didn't know what else to say.
Some vicar I am.”
“It's enough that you're here,” Christopher replied, speaking directly from the
heart. “You've been here through so much, helped so much. Thank you, my
friend.”
The reply James made sounded something like a mixture of grunt, sob and
sigh.
As before, the hour passed in agonizing slow motion, and yet when the clock
chimed, it startled him.
Colonel Turner approached and knelt before the unconscious woman,
checking her breathing, her eyes and her pulse. “She seems the same,” he said,
sighing with relief.
Christopher nodded. “I'll take her upstairs. What bedroom, Mother?”
“Take her to your old room,” Julia replied.
For reasons he couldn't fathom, the suggestion twisted Christopher's heart.
“I… uh… all right.”
“We'll just go now,” Cary said. “There's nothing more we can do here. I'll keep praying, Christopher. I swear it.”
“I know,” he replied. “Go on. Thank you for… for everything.” He bowed
his head as agony closed in on him again.
James paused as though uncertain how to continue. Then he dragged his
friend to his feet and crushed him in a hard hug.
Through swimming eyes, Christopher regarded his friend. He's gone beyond
anything I ever expected, he realized. I underestimated him.
As James and his wife trailed out, the sound of her soft crying echoing down
the hallway, Christopher eased Katerina into his arms.
“I'll come up and check on her shortly,” Mrs. Turner told him, her voice calmly compassionate.
He acknowledged her with a glance before making his slow way into the
hall. To reach the stairs, he had to pass the entryway, and the blood on the floor
raised a gag in his throat. Dear Lord, how could this have happened?
Never have stairs been climbed as slowly and carefully as Christopher did
carrying his injured wife. It seemed to take a year before he reached the top. He progressed across polished floorboards, past the place where, only a short time
