“No.”
They sat in silence for a long time. She held her aunt’s hand.
—
Nikki had always known Preston as a kind man. Too proper and British for hugs, he instead offered a sort of erudite scholarly affection, dressing his advice and comfort in the forms of his beloved authors. When she was a child, he’d taken a keen interest in her stories and thoughts, elevating them by drawing out their themes and comparing them favorably with the ideas of Shakespeare and Marlowe. In recent years, that scholar’s mind had veered increasingly off track, and Nikki watched his attempts to navigate back by the light of his favorite books. As she gradually lost her uncle, Nikki couldn’t tell whether her grief was about this loss, or for her aunt, who called him “my love,” and read aloud to calm his agitation.
Izzy and Preston had repeated their love story enough times that it had become a fixed point, Nikki’s mind supplying the details until she felt that she’d been there herself on that rainy afternoon in the British Museum. Izzy had been a concert pianist performing in London, and Preston was guiding a group of disgruntled young schoolboys on a tour through the Sutton Hoo collection, quoting Middle English poetry to them.
“I was intrigued. He was so handsome, and so intellectual,” Izzy would say. “So of course, I stopped to listen.”
This would prompt Preston to tell his part. “I was terribly awkward around women. But there was this angel suddenly before me…and what other words could I use, except from Chartier’s ‘La Belle Dame sans Mercy’? ‘Love has bound me to be your man, and leave all other pursuits.’ ”
—
“I’m so worried about him, I can’t think,” Izzy said. “I know there’s nothing to be done…but my mind is tied up in knots.”
“He’s strong,” said Nikki. “And he loves you. He’s fighting to come back. I’m sure of it.”
Izzy nodded, and took her hand. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”
“Have you slept?” Nikki asked.
Izzy brushed this off, and Nikki pressed, “You should get some rest. I’ll take this shift.”
Izzy squeezed her eyes shut. “What if he wakes, and I’m not here?”
Nikki didn’t say the thing they were both thinking: that he might not wake up.
“I’ll be here,” Nikki reassured. “Go home, shower, and catch a few hours of sleep. I’ll call if there are any changes.”
It took some persuading, but Izzy finally agreed. Nikki walked her down the hall, then returned to Preston’s bedside.
—
The hours passed slowly. She’d had a difficult night with little sleep, but her body flexed, agitated, and her heart pounded.
The hospital was anything but peaceful. The corridor was filled with people rushing past, conversations, beeps, rings, buzzings. A strange cold pressure in the air popped her ears every once in a while. Nurses came by occasionally to take measurements or administer medication, but there was no change in Preston’s condition.
—
Angelo had been angry when she asked for time off to fly to London.
“I can’t spare you,” he said. “I’ve taken myself off the shift schedule while I support the ambassador.”
At last, he’d capitulated on the condition that she coordinate the shift changes herself with the other men on the team before leaving. Nikki had made arrangements with her three most helpful colleagues: Pasquale, Iacopo, and Alfonso.
“Let me know if you need to stay longer,” Pasquale offered. “I’ll deal with Angelo. He can be an asshole, but he knows family is important.”
—
It was difficult to sit here, looking on the dreadfully grey face of her uncle, terrified of what the next hours would mean for him and Izzy. Nikki did push-ups and lunges in the small hospital room while herthoughts spiraled perpetually inward, returning again and again to the fire in that storefront studio, the families displaced, homes reduced to ash. She still smelled the smoke, the acrid stink in her pores and nostrils. A sick, tight feeling flexed up the back of her neck as she considered the price those people had paid for her unwillingness to go along with De Rosa’s demand.
—
Nikki understood Tito better than most, had been there as he formed and tested his rules—had fought him, pushed against him. He’d hated and loved her for it. Was that why she’d somehow imagined she was exempt from his laws?
—
