I went upstairs to the nursery, where Sabina lay on her side in the dark. She was clutching her faded star blanket, her breathing shallow and raspy.
“Mama,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“I have you, sweetie,” I said, lifting her. She felt like a bundle of dry straw, too light, her heat soaking through my silk blouse.
I wrapped the star blanket tightly around her small shoulders and walked back down the stairs.
Thatcher was waiting at the bottom, his arms crossed over his chest. Beatrix stood beside him, her face set in a hard mask.
“Where do you think you are going?” Thatcher asked, stepping into the center of the foyer.
“The emergency room,” I said.
“You are not leaving this house,” Beatrix said, her voice crisp and loud. “The first cars are turning into the driveway.”
“Get out of my way,” I said.
Thatcher reached out and grabbed my left wrist, his fingers clamping down with sudden, surprising force. The diamond tennis bracelet I wore was pressed hard into my skin, the sharp metal prongs of the settings biting deep.
