I stroked her hair and held her as close as her injuries allowed.
“Then don’t close your eyes. Let the fire warm you. I’ll hold you as long as you like.”
The hours passed slowly. When the Baroness stilled into sleep, I carried her into a bedroom and wrapped blankets about her frail form. Then I moved between Thomas and standing in the hallway outside the room where Müller worked on Otto.
The farmhouse was quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the occasional sound of instruments from behind the closed door.
Bisch kept watch by the window, his eyes fixed on the road. He barely moved, barely spoke. Whatever he was feeling—guilt or grief or exhaustion—he kept it locked away, as he always did.
Around three in the morning, Dr. Müller emerged.
His hands were washed, but I could see traces of blood beneath his fingernails and in the creases of his knuckles. His face was gray, his eyes hollow with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion.
“Well?” I asked.
“I have done what I can.” He pulled off his surgical cap and ran a hand through his thin white hair. “The bleeding is stopped and the damaged tissue is repaired, but there was significant trauma. His heart stopped twice on the table. I brought him back, but . . .” He shook his head. “The next few hours will tell. If he survives until dawn, he may have a chance. If not . . .”
“Can I see him?”
“Briefly. He is sedated. He will not know you are there.”
I went in anyway.
Otto lay on the table, appearing smaller than I remembered. His massive frame was somehow diminished by the tubes and wires connecting him to machines that beeped and hummed. His mustache had been trimmed, and the absence of that magnificent white sweep made him look like a stranger.
I stood beside him and thought about the story he had told us in the car the day we arrived in Bern. His wife and daughter had been taken to the camps. The Baroness appeared in the chaos of an ambush to pull him from the wreckage. He’d spoken of years of devotion, of service, and of love expressed through loyalty.
“You’re not done yet, Otto,” I told him. “She still needs you. We all still need you.”
The machines beeped.
His chest rose and fell, pushed by the ventilator that was breathing for him.
“Don’t give up,” I said. “Whatever you do, don’t give up.”
Dawn crept in slowly, gray light seeping through thin curtains.
Thomas woke first.
I was sitting beside him, half asleep in a chair I’d dragged from the kitchen, when I heard him stir. His eyes opened. He was confused at first, then sharpened as the clouds parted.
“Will.” His voice was a croak, barely audible.
“I’m here.” I took his hand, squeezed it. “I’m right here.”
“What happened? I remember the corridor, the shooting, and then—”
“Babe, shh. It’s okay. I’m right here.”
He tried to sit up and gasped, his hand going to his shoulder. “Fuck.”
“Don’t try to get up.”
“Will, what the fuck?” His eyes cleared further, and I finally saw the man I loved return in full.
“You were shot,” I said. “You were so focused on getting us all out that you didn’t even notice until we were in the car. You passed out from blood loss and left me to keep pressure on your wound for twentyminutes while Bisch drove like a maniac.” I tried to keep my voice light, but I could feel it shaking. “Do you have any idea how terrifying that was, you dramatic idiot? I had to talk to you the whole time you were out just to keep myself from falling apart. You missed a very moving speech about our relationship.”
“Sorry I missed it.” A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Was it romantic?”
