That surprised her most.
Only anger.
And desperation.
She looked at Hope.
The baby’s chest barely moved.
Norah closed her eyes.
Then she held out her arms.
“I’ll try.”
The boardinghouse attic was hot despite the October wind.
Mrs. Hargrove, the boardinghouse matron, objected the moment Thomas crossed her doorway.
“Absolutely not.”
“The child is dying,” Norah said.
“That man isn’t coming upstairs.”
Thomas reached into his pocket and placed two silver dollars on the counter.
Mrs. Hargrove stared at them.
Then stepped aside.
“Twenty minutes.”
They climbed three flights.
Norah’s room was barely large enough for a narrow bed, washstand, chair, and wooden trunk.
Thomas stopped when he saw it.
“You live here?”
Norah ignored the question.
“Put the blanket over the window.”
He obeyed.
Then he turned his back.
Norah sat on the bed with Hope.
Her hands trembled.
She hadn’t tried to nurse since Grace died.
For weeks she had prayed her milk would disappear because every ache reminded her of what she had lost.
Now she prayed for the opposite.
“Come on,” she whispered.
Hope didn’t respond.
Norah tried again.
Nothing.
Behind her, Thomas stood absolutely still.
“Is she—”
“Give me time.”
Norah massaged her breast gently.
Pain shot through her.
Nothing.
Hope’s mouth opened weakly.
“Please,” Norah whispered.
Not to Thomas.
Not even to the baby.
Perhaps to God.
Perhaps to Grace.
“Please don’t make me lose another one.”
A drop appeared.
Norah froze.
Hope moved.
Another drop.
Then the baby’s mouth found her.
One weak pull.
Nothing.
Then another.
Norah held her breath.
Hope swallowed.
Thomas turned at the sound.
Norah looked up.
“She’s drinking.”
He stared.
Hope swallowed again.
Then again.
Thomas Hayes sank onto the wooden chair.
He covered his face with both hands.
His shoulders began to shake.
Norah had seen men cry at funerals.
Quietly.
Embarrassed.
Thomas didn’t cry that way.
He wept like something inside him had finally broken.
“My God,” he whispered.
Norah looked down.
A trace of pink had returned to Hope’s lips.
“She’s not safe yet.”
“But she’s eating.”
“Yes.”
He wiped his face.
“Then whatever you want is yours.”
Norah frowned.
“I don’t want anything.”
“You saved her.”
“I fed her.”
“You saved her.”
Before Norah could answer, someone hammered on the door.
Mrs. Hargrove burst inside.
Her eyes went from Norah to Thomas.
Her mouth tightened.
“I want you gone.”
Norah blinked.
“What?”
“Tonight.”
“You said I had until December.”
“That was before you brought him here.”
“His child was dying.”
“I run a respectable establishment.”
Thomas stood.
“Careful.”
Mrs. Hargrove stepped backward.
Norah said quietly, “Thomas.”
He looked at her.
It was the first time she had used his name.
His anger eased.
Mrs. Hargrove pointed toward Norah.
“Pack your things.”
Then she left.
