Chapter 4

The emergency room was a blur of white light and antiseptic smells, of gloved hands and quiet voices and the steady beep of machines. Clara lay on a narrow bed with a paper gown over her champagne-gold dress, her left palm bandaged, a thin strip of surgical tape at her temple, and a monitor strapped across her belly that was broadcasting her daughter's heartbeat in a steady, reassuring rhythm.

Her daughter. The word still felt new, still felt like a secret she was keeping from the world even though everyone could see the swell of her belly. They had found out the sex three weeks ago, in a darkened ultrasound room with Julian's hand wrapped around hers and a small, flickering image on the screen that had somehow condensed all of her hopes and fears into a shape no bigger than a peanut.

"Everything looks good." Dr. Elena Vasquez, the obstetrician on call, was a compact woman with sharp brown eyes and a voice that carried the authority of someone who had seen too much to be rattled easily. "No signs of placental abruption, no contractions, the baby's heartbeat is strong. The bruise on your side is going to be painful for a few weeks, and I want you to take it easy — no lifting, no stress, plenty of rest. But you're going to be fine. Both of you."

Clara nodded, feeling the tears she had been holding back all night begin to press against the backs of her eyes. "Thank you."

"The cut on your palm is clean. We've bandaged it, and you'll need to change the dressing twice a day." Dr. Vasquez's eyes softened almost imperceptibly. "You're lucky. That crystal could have done a lot more damage if it had hit you in the wrong place."

"I know." Clara looked down at her bandaged palm, at the white gauze that had replaced the pearl stud's grip. The pearl stud itself was in a small paper cup on the tray beside her, washed and waiting, a tiny piece of ocean-light that had become a witness to everything that had happened.

The door opened, and Julian walked in. His tuxedo was rumpled, his bow tie undone and hanging loose around his neck, his dark hair disheveled in a way that made him look ten years younger and a hundred times more careworn. He crossed to her bed in three long strides and took her hand — the unbandaged one, careful, gentle.

"Alistair's handling the police." Julian's voice was low, roughened with exhaustion and something Clara could not quite name. "They're reviewing the footage now. They'll want to take your statement, but not tonight. You need to rest."