Edmund had also said that if she went into labor when he was on the base, he would try to trade watch with someone, or even a scheduled mission if they'd let him, and drive home as fast as he could, although he was based in East Anglia, which was several hours away. But he said he would do his best, and she knew he would. She had decided to have the baby at home in Haversham, since hospitals were so busy with injured men now, and she felt guilty taking up bed s.p.a.ce and the nurses' attention for something so normal. She was having the local doctor and her mother-in-law at the birth, and with any luck at all, Edmund would be on leave, or come soon after, to see their baby. She wanted a son for him, which was what was expected of them, but Edmund had secretly admitted to her, since the beginning, that he wanted a girl, one who looked just like her. They wanted many children, at least five or six, and they were both delighted with the seemingly easy arrival of their first.

By sheer miracle, Edmund managed to get five days' leave at the end of May, into the first days of June, which was precisely when she was expecting their baby, and she hoped it would arrive on time before he left. Isabel promised to run her around the garden, and they'd had a spell of hot weather, which Isabel felt sure would bring it on, if gardening and long walks didn't. But Marianne wanted to sit very still before he arrived, so she didn't have it early either. She was enormous, and Isabel kept saying it must be twins, although the doctor hadn't heard a second heartbeat. But Isabel found it hard to believe that one baby could be that size. Marianne's face and limbs had stayed thin, but her belly was huge, and Edmund made fun of her now whenever he saw her. He said she looked like she'd stolen some poor child's beach ball and was hiding it under her dress. And she was uncomfortable in the heat and felt like she could barely move. She could hardly get her stockings on, and had given up wearing them in the heat. There was no one at Haversham to see her, and her mother-in-law told her not to bother. They didn't care. And lots of girls didn't wear them now, since they were so hard to get.

The night before Edmund was due home, he called Marianne from the base. He had just been a.s.signed to an important mission, and they wouldn't allow him to trade it, or start his leave for two more days. He said it would be over quickly, and to keep her legs crossed until he got there. She promised to do so, and he had to get off the phone quickly, as dozens of other airmen, if not hundreds, had to call about canceled leaves. All she had time to do was tell him she loved him and come home soon, and he said he loved her, too, in haste, and hung up. And she went to tell Isabel the disappointing news that he'd been delayed for a mission, but Marianne was surprisingly calm about it, and said she was sure she wouldn't have the baby for a few more days.

And the following night they heard them. Hundreds of planes flying over Britain toward Germany. She, Isabel, and Charles saw them, and they didn't know how many there were, but the night sky was full of them, flying relentlessly toward their target, and she knew instantly that Edmund was with them. She stood smiling at the sky, and whispered that she loved him. They didn't know until later that there were a thousand bombers and they were heading for Cologne.

"No wonder he couldn't come home," Isabel said as they went back into the house. They had heard the ma.s.sive formation coming, and had gone outside to look. "There must be hundreds of planes there, even a thousand." Charles thought that an exaggeration, but as it turned out, it wasn't. There were planes in the sky for as far as the eye could see, and you could still hear them after they had vanished from sight. It was the same droning sound that filled them with dread at night, when the Germans flew in to bomb their cities. It was familiar to all now. Marianne could only guess that the German civilian population were as distressed as they were. Their cities were in ruins, and England had taken heavy hits-there was rubble everywhere in the streets of London, although Marianne hadn't been there to see it, since she arrived. Isabel wouldn't let her, nor Edmund once they were married. Marianne was enjoying country life, where they were safer than in London.

They shared a peaceful dinner in the dining room that night, while Marianne reported on signs from the baby, and whether or not it might arrive. It distracted all of them from thinking too much about Edmund. Marianne told herself that this was just another mission, no different from the others, and he would be home soon. Either tomorrow or the next day, he hadn't been sure, and he promised to call as soon as he could. And late that night, they heard the planes come back. It was too many to be the Germans and sounded like the same battalion that had left. Marianne lay in bed with a sense of relief, feeling the usual contractions she had had for weeks. He was almost home. And she was beginning to think that their baby would be home soon too. The contractions were stronger than usual that night, but by morning, nothing major had happened, and she waddled down to breakfast, still pregnant and looking tired.

"Sleep well, darling?" her mother-in-law asked her, with a kiss, as she helped herself to a piece of toast, and an egg from one of their hens. They hadn't seen bacon in a year. Those days were over for the duration of the war. But eggs were plentiful in their henhouses, and chickens on their table. It was the only meat they got. Isabel noticed that Marianne looked tired, but she wasn't surprised. The baby wouldn't be long now, she could tell. "I heard the boys come home last night."

"So did I." Marianne had been greatly rea.s.sured to hear them return. She wanted Edmund to come soon. He hadn't called yet, but she a.s.sumed he was either sleeping after the mission, or trying to get permission for his leave before he called to tell her when he'd be home. And Isabel took her out to the garden with her again after breakfast, telling her they had work to do.

"My roses are a mess!" she complained, as Marianne went outside and put on her gardening boots with bare feet.

They were still busy and Charles was reading the newspaper in his study when William the butler came to tell him that there was a gentleman to see him. He was a general of the army who lived in the area, and he and Charles were old friends. Charles looked instantly pleased.

"Show him in." He was glad to have some male companionship. Isabel's constant clucking about the baby had begun to wear thin. It was all she could think of. And he stood up as his friend the general walked into the study, and held out a hand in greeting.

"Bernard, dear man. What a pleasure to see you! We're expecting a grandchild at any moment, and it's all the women can talk about. It's driving me mad. How good to see you!" His old friend smiled at what he said, but he looked serious as he took a seat across from Charles's desk. He got right to the point. He didn't want to mislead him, or waste time in idle conversation. His eyes locked into Charles's, who felt his heart skip a beat.

"I have bad news for you, Charles," he said simply. He had wanted to tell him first, and preferably alone, in deference to their long friendship.

"One of the boys?" Charles said it in barely more than a whisper. It was all he could get out. The general nodded.

"Edmund. Last night. He was shot down over Cologne. We sent more than eleven hundred planes over. All but forty-three came back. Edmund didn't make it. I'm so sorry." He was desperately sorry for his friend. Charles fought for his composure, stood up and walked around the room, distraught, as the general came to stand with him and patted his shoulder. He had lost two sons himself since the beginning of the war. It wasn't unfamiliar to him, which was why he had come. Edmund's squadron leader had called him, knowing he was in the area and a friend of the young pilot's father.

"Oh my G.o.d, what will I tell his mother?" Charles looked into his friend's eyes with panic and despair. This was what they had feared and hoped would never happen, like every parent in England, and everywhere else. "And it's his baby that's due at any moment, possibly even today." The general knew just how hard it was. It was a terrible, unthinkably agonizing moment in any parent's life, no matter how it happened. At least this was for a n.o.ble cause, they could tell themselves, and not some stupid accident caused by a drunk behind the wheel of a car. Edmund had been defending England against its enemies. But that was small consolation now.

"I wish there were something I could do," the general said kindly, but he knew there wasn't. All he could do was deliver the news as compa.s.sionately as possible. Others were notified by the War Office by a phone call, or by a bicycle messenger arriving at the front gate with a telegram. The general had spared them that. Charles was grateful for his kindness, and thought of poor Marianne. He felt so sorry for her now, as well as himself. He couldn't imagine how they would survive it, but he knew they would. They had to. They had no other choice.

The general quietly took his leave then. William had an ugly premonition as he closed the door behind him. Feeling sh.e.l.l-shocked, Charles walked out into the garden to find the women. The sun was too bright and the birds were too loud, and his legs felt like rubber under his body. He felt as though the world had come to an end. But he couldn't allow it to show until he told them.

"Did you have a visitor?" Isabel asked him, looking cheerful. "Who was it?" She smiled up at him, but the moment she saw his eyes, she knew, and froze to the spot. Their eyes met, and he nodded, as she dropped her gardening tools and her hand went instinctively to her heart, as though she could stop it bleeding immediately, but she couldn't. She felt like she'd been shot. "Edmund?" she said instantly. Charles nodded again and then took two strides and took her in his arms to console her, gathering Marianne with one arm along the way. She didn't know yet, she didn't understand the shorthand between them that happens after twenty-five years of marriage. Charles and Isabel had needed few words. Marianne looked confused.

"What about Edmund?" Marianne looked panicked, suddenly sandwiched between her parents-in-law, with her enormous belly. She felt as though she couldn't breathe. "Is he all right?" Her father-in-law looked at her as honestly as the general had at him.

"No, he isn't," he said simply. "His plane went down over Cologne last night, on the mission we saw leaving. A thousand bombers. He didn't come back."

"Was he injured? Did they take him prisoner?" she asked frantically, not wanting to accept what had happened.

"They shot him down. The plane crashed," he said as gently as possible, so she would accept it, but she couldn't.

"Sometimes people survive that. How do they know what happened?" He didn't want to tell her what the general had told him before he left, that the plane had exploded, and it had been quick. There were no survivors.

"They know," he said quietly with an arm around her shoulders, holding her close to give her what little comfort he could, as Isabel clung to him with a glazed look and said nothing. She was worried about Marianne too. It gave them someone to comfort, other than themselves. She had lost a husband and the father of her unborn child.

"He promised me he'd never die," Marianne said angrily, shouting at them. "He said he'd always come back!" She choked on a sob, and then collapsed into her parents-in-law's arms, crying hysterically, as Isabel gently led her into the house, to lie down. "He said ... he promised ... it's not true ... they're lying ... he's coming home today...." She tried everything, but nothing would change what had happened. No amount of denying or begging, no fury and no pain. All she wanted now was him.

Isabel soothed her with cooing sounds as tears ran down her own cheeks. She made Marianne lie down, and gave her water to drink. Charles came in and out of the room like a ghost, not knowing what to do for her either, as the three of them cried. Simon called later that morning, and he was crying too. They had just told him. He'd had an ear infection and couldn't leave on the same mission, although he'd been scheduled to. And Isabel thanked G.o.d he hadn't gone. If she'd lost them both, it would have killed her, and Charles, who was as distraught as his wife, and had no words to express what he was feeling. They were all in agony and Marianne sobbed all day, unable to believe what had happened. She finally fell into a light sleep, and Isabel left the room to find her husband. He was sitting in his study looking ravaged, and he looked up when she came into the room.

"I'm so sorry," he said to the mother of his firstborn and burst into tears again. And she came to hold him in her arms as she cried too.

"He was such a good boy," she said miserably, and he nodded. "But so is Simon," she said loyally. "We're lucky to have him," she reminded Charles, although she'd been closer to Edmund in recent years. He was a more expressive person. "What are we going to do for that poor girl?" she said, as they sat together and she blew her nose on the handkerchief he handed her. He always had one in his pocket.

"There's nothing we can do," he said honestly. "Take care of her and the child. She'll stay here with us, of course," he said, echoing his wife's thoughts. "She can't go home to Germany now anyway. G.o.d, I hate those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," he said with feeling, forgetting that his daughter-in-law was German, as was her father, whom he loved dearly. But they were exceptions. He had raw hatred now for a country and all its people, and the man who had started a war on their behalf and killed so many others, and his own, in the process.

"I hope she doesn't go home after the war," Isabel said sadly. "At least we'll have his baby. Maybe it will be a little boy who looks just like him." She was clutching at straws for comfort.

They had to plan a memorial service, and Simon had said he would come home for it. But she couldn't think of that now with the baby about to arrive any minute. It seemed too cruel to schedule it now, with Marianne still expecting his child. It would be too much for her to endure. Isabel could hardly think straight, as she went back upstairs to Marianne's room, and saw that she was still sleeping. She went to her own room then, and lay down, and fell asleep. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, none of them had, and a little while later she heard Charles come upstairs and felt him lie down next to her. He took her hand in his own, and they lay there, holding hands and saying nothing. There was nothing left to do or say, except be there together.

The next morning Marianne didn't come down to breakfast. She was usually up early, and at ten o'clock Isabel went upstairs to check on her. She knocked on the door and got no answer, and found her in her bathroom, on her knees on the floor, retching into the toilet, and the eyes she raised to her mother-in-law's looked dead. She felt as though she had died herself the day before. And suddenly Isabel was grateful she hadn't given birth the day she heard the news. It would have been too cruel to have the anniversary of his death every year on the birthday of their child. But at least she had his baby. Isabel was wearing somber black, and had instructed William the butler to put a black wreath on the door, and Charles told him to fly their flag at half-mast. By nightfall all of their neighbors knew, and handwritten sympathy notes had begun to drift in. Everyone felt sorry for them, and there were too many other families like them now. At least her son had died a hero's death. She tried to tell herself it mattered, but it really didn't. Her baby was dead. But Marianne's was still alive, and she forced herself to concentrate, and put a damp cool cloth on the girl's head as she vomited miserably. She was pale gray, verging on green. The day before had been too much.

"How's the baby?" Isabel asked her quietly. Marianne had never looked worse.

"Not moving," Marianne said, and looked as though she didn't care.

"Any contractions?" Marianne shrugged.

"Not really. My back hurts and I feel sick." And as she said it, she threw up again. Isabel flushed the toilet, pulled her hair back, and washed her face with cool water, as Marianne lay down on the bathroom floor, too sick to move or go back to bed. All she wanted now was to die. He had lied to her, and didn't come back this time, after he'd promised. It was a promise he couldn't keep, and she hated him for it.

"Let's get you back into bed," Isabel said, and helped her get up off the floor, but as soon as she did, Marianne doubled over, and a flood of water came from nowhere and covered the bathroom floor. Isabel knew instantly what it was, and Marianne looked panicked.

"I can't have the baby now-I'm too sick." Isabel helped her take her nightgown off, and reached into the cupboard for a fresh one, as Marianne doubled over again and clutched her between sobs. She was in terrible shape, and Isabel grabbed a stack of towels, spread them on the bed, and got Marianne to lie down.

"I'll be back in a minute," she promised her, and left the room quickly while trying to look calm and ran into Charles in the corridor on his way downstairs with a funereal look. "Get the doctor!" she told him quickly, and he looked instantly worried.

"Is she all right?"

"No. Yes. She's distraught, but she's having the baby. She just lost her water, and she's quite ill. Tell him to come now." She hurried back into the room, and Charles disappeared to do as he'd been told. And when Isabel got back, she could see that Marianne was having serious contractions. She looked up at her mother-in-law with sad eyes.

"I don't want the baby," she said miserably, as tears slid down her cheeks in rivers. "He's never coming home again."

"I know, dear, I know ..." Isabel said, stroking her hand gently, and then Marianne reached out and clutched her. The pains had started to come hard the moment her water broke. The baby was ready, whether its mother was or not. It was time.

The pains got harder and longer for the next half hour, as Isabel got more towels, and wished the doctor would hurry. She didn't want to deliver this baby alone and had never done so. She was no midwife. Marianne let out a groan and a scream as the door opened and the doctor walked in, carrying his bag. He looked somber and sympathetic, having just heard the news after he saw the wreath on the door.

"I'm so sorry," he said to Isabel, and then rapidly turned his attention to Edmund's widow. It had occurred to Isabel the night before that her daughter-in-law was now a widow at twenty-one. It seemed a cruel beginning to life, and equally so to lose a child, as she had. And as he looked at Marianne, he could see from the signs that things were moving quickly. She looked desperate as she glanced at him and clutched Isabel's arm and then her shoulder.

"I can't have this baby," she gasped at him. "I'm not ready."

"Perhaps not." He smiled at her kindly. "But I think the baby is." He didn't tell her that we get no choice in these matters, whether birth or death, but it was true. And her baby was going to be born that day, whether she was ready or not.

He examined her as gently as he could, and she screamed, which Charles heard from the hallway, and scurried downstairs, terrified by the sounds. Isabel went to get the old sheets that she'd put aside for the delivery, asked one of the maids to bring in more towels, and returned to Marianne, who was vomiting again, and in agony with each contraction. "This is horrible!" she screamed. "I can't do this without Edmund."

"He's right here with you, Marianne," Isabel said calmly. "He always will be. He won't leave you alone. Just hear him in your head. He won't let anything happen to you." Marianne looked at her as she said it, and suddenly got very calm and stopped screaming. It was exactly what she had needed to hear, and the doctor nodded his approval as he felt Marianne's belly. The baby was moving down nicely, and then Marianne looked at them both wild-eyed as a force greater than any she'd ever known pushed through her, and the doctor told her to bear down as she braced her legs. It was all happening very quickly, and Marianne was frightened as she screamed with each push, and fell back against the pillows and gave up.

"I can't, I can't," she said, crying and then the force seized her again, and she screamed one long, horrifying, never-ending scream that went on forever and ended in a small but mighty wail. Marianne looked at them both in amazement and then saw a small face between her legs.

"Oh my G.o.d," she said, crying, and looked at them with smiles mixed with her tears. The baby had dark hair like Edmund, and Isabel thought the baby looked just like him. The doctor told Marianne to keep pushing, and the baby slid out with another long wail and began crying fiercely. It was a girl, just as Edmund had hoped. Marianne lay back against the pillows with a victorious smile, and tears ran down her cheeks.

"She looks like Edmund," Isabel whispered to Marianne, crying, too, with all the joy and sorrow of birth, especially now. And Marianne had seen it too. The baby was the image of him. Marianne looked suddenly grown-up and mature as she lay there while the doctor cut the cord, wrapped the baby in a small blanket Isabel held out to him, and put the baby to her mother's breast. She had lavender-blue eyes like her mother's, but the rest was her father, without a doubt.

The three of them exclaimed over the beauty of the baby, and then they laid her in a ba.s.sinette, and Isabel helped clean the mother up, and then washed the baby, and swaddled her and gave her back to her mother. The doctor was satisfied that all had gone well-in fact, it had been an easy birth, and had only taken four hours from beginning to end. Isabel suspected she'd been in labor the night before and didn't know it. And she left Marianne alone with the doctor for a few minutes to find Charles and tell him the news. He was in his study and drinking straight scotch. She smiled when she saw it. He deserved it, so she didn't comment.

"You have a beautiful granddaughter, your lordship," she said as she came around the desk to kiss him, and took a sip of his scotch. He smiled. She was a good woman, and a game one. She had come through the past two days admirably-she always did. She had never let him down in more than twenty-five years, and he knew she never would.

"Are they both all right?" He looked worried. He didn't want another tragedy, for any of them.

"Very much so. The baby is huge, but Marianne did fine. And she looks just like Edmund." He seemed pleased, although slightly disappointed that it was a girl.

"It sounded awful for a while."

"It always does. You've just forgotten. I nearly brought down the house with ours. You were probably too drunk to notice."

"I think I went out hunting." He smiled at her for the first time in two days, but this was a happy event, no matter how great their loss. And it was a piece of Edmund to have with them forever.

"Would you like to see her?" Isabel offered, but he looked nervous at the suggestion. It was a little too soon for him.

"Let the poor girl recover for a few hours at least." Isabel nodded and went back to Marianne and the baby and the doctor left shortly afterward and promised to return the next day. He had had to do a little st.i.tching up, which was to be expected with such a big baby, and he predicted that Marianne would be sore, which she already was. But she was looking at her baby with rapture and smiled at her mother-in-law when she walked in.

"She's so beautiful," Marianne said softly, touching the tiny fingers, and she had unwrapped her feet so she could see her toes. She had everything she was supposed to. Marianne had never seen anything as exquisite as her child.

"What are you going to call her?"

Marianne thought about it for a long moment. She had been looking at her violet eyes. "Violet," she answered, looking peaceful. What Isabel had said to her had calmed her down, and reminded her that in some way Edmund would always be part of her life, through this child. "Violet Edwina Alexandra Isabel Charlotte Beaulieu," she said, and Isabel laughed. She was honoring the baby's father and all her grandparents at one shot, since it would be Edmund's only child. Isabel was touched.

"Good lord," Isabel said laughing, "she'll have to marry at least a prince with all that, or a duke at the very least. And sit on a throne." But Isabel was well pleased by her choices, as Marianne lay with her daughter in her arms. She thought of Edmund and felt him close to her, and quietly closed her eyes as she and the baby drifted off to sleep. Isabel gently smoothed the covers, and silently left the room to go back to her own. She still had much to do, and none of it as joyful as welcoming a grandchild. She had her son's memorial service to plan, and her heart was heavy as she left. Marianne's journey with her baby had just begun. And hers with her son had just ended. The two ends of life had come together too quickly.

Chapter 22.

It was July on tour in California when Nick heard from Alex that Marianne had had a baby girl and lost her husband, all within two days. Alex said nothing of his own doings, but Nick imagined that there was little going on in the county and his life was quiet, although there was much going on on the war front, both on the Russian front and in North Africa, but the tides hadn't turned yet for the Allies. And Nick stayed constantly abreast of what was happening in the Pacific. News was scarce from Toby, although he had written to Katja that he wanted to marry her if he came home for Christmas, or on his next leave. And it was all she could talk about whenever Nick saw her. It gave both young people hope and some kind of affirmation of life to make plans.

Nick read avidly about the first American air attack in Europe on occupied France, in mid-August. The United States joined Britain in continuing bombing missions against Germany.

The circus got to San Francisco and was set up for two days in Oakland. Nick was shining his boots, as he always did before each night's performance. Christianna always offered to do it for him, but he smiled and said it was one of those things a man had to do himself. He always looked impeccable, whether in work clothes, or white tie and tails. He was listening to the news on the radio and didn't hear the bicycle messenger stop at his trailer. And when he looked up, a young boy in a Western Union uniform was holding out an envelope to him with a trembling hand. For a second, Nick didn't want to take it, and then he grabbed it. He hated telegrams now. The messenger ran off before Nick could open it. He stood there, reading it, with his shined boots at his feet in the dust, and the brush beside them, and he read it again and again and it didn't sink in. He wouldn't let it.... The War Department regrets to inform you that Corporal Tobias Bing ... killed in action ... in the highest service to his country ... regret to inform you ... regret to inform you ... the words were swimming before his eyes as he let out a low animal howl. Christianna heard it as she came down the road, and came running, thinking that an animal was injured. She found Nick looking dazed, and the telegram clutched in his hand. She took it from him and read it, and he sobbed uncontrollably as she held him. Thank G.o.d Lucas was off with the clowns-he was taking juggling lessons. She led Nick into the trailer, and he just stood there still crying.

"He's dead ... he's dead ... oh my G.o.d, they killed him ..." he kept saying over and over. Toby was a baby. He was almost nineteen and now his life was over. Nick was inconsolable, and Christianna held him for hours as he rocked back and forth, keening for his son.

News spread through the circus within hours. There had already been many losses of boys who had enlisted or been drafted, roustabouts, performers, sons, brothers-the list was long, and now Toby was on it. They had a page in the program now honoring those who had died in service to their country. Christianna's brothers and father came over that afternoon to talk to Nick, but he was almost incoherent and he cried in his father-in-law's arms like a child, and Sandor cried too.

"He was such a good boy," Nick said. "He never gave me any trouble." Sandor sat with him for a long time, and finally Christianna asked him if he wanted to cancel that night's performance. He was in no condition to go on, but he knew that he was expected to, and he felt he had to. He and Christianna were their star act, and the audience would be furious if they didn't go on, whatever the reason. His private tragedy was not their problem, and he shook his head in answer to her question.

"Are you sure?" She was worried about him, and John Ringling North, Joe Herlihy, and the ringmaster came to see him too. Mr. North had ordered their flag to be flown at half-mast. Everyone felt terrible about what had happened, and Christianna could hear Katja scream when Gallina told her. All those who had known and loved Toby were devastated. And the worst was telling Lucas. He lay on his bed and sobbed, mourning his brother, who had been his hero and best friend all his life, even more than their father.

Nick looked like he was going to a funeral when he left for the performance that night, and he'd been in no condition for rehearsal, although they didn't need one. They could do their act in their sleep. And even if the performance was lackl.u.s.ter that night, the crowd probably wouldn't know it. The horses were so spectacular and Christianna so beautiful that all Nick had to do was be there. It was all he was capable of now anyway.

Christianna helped him dress, and he followed her blindly to the horses' tent, where the handlers helped him get the horses to the main ring, and all of them expressed their sympathy about Toby. The ringmaster asked for a moment of silence for one of their brave boys fallen in battle, and mentioned him by name, at the beginning of the performance. Fortunately, Nick didn't hear it, or he would have come unglued. Nick was devastated. His boys meant everything to him, and it was the second child he'd lost, after his daughter nine years before. Out of three children, only Lucas survived.

Their familiar music played, which was their cue to go on, and Nick and Christianna rode into the spotlight on Pegasus and Athena. Nick was smiling, which looked like a grimace, and Christianna tried to put more into it than usual, to compensate for whatever Nick was lacking, but his performance was flawless. She knew him well enough to see that he was going through the motions blindly, without paying attention to anything, but no one else could see it, and she smiled at him to encourage him, but he was in a daze and looked like he was sleepwalking. Pegasus did the show himself with almost no guidance from Nick, and as they were leaving the ring, Nick was holding the reins slack, and didn't see a pole someone had left on their path, and neither did the stallion, and he stumbled badly and nearly fell. The shock of it woke Nick out of his stupor, but too late. The Lipizzaner stallion had pulled something in his leg, and was limping badly when they left the ring. Nick was off the horse's back instantly to check it, as was Christianna, standing near him.

"What happened?" she asked in a frightened voice. She knew how much Pegasus meant to him, and this was no day for anything bad to happen. But the shock of losing Toby and the state Nick was in was why it had. For the first time ever, he hadn't been paying attention.

"He pulled a ligament," Nick said tersely. "It's my fault. I wasn't watching. I didn't see what was on the ground." He always looked for things like that, but hadn't tonight. All he had been able to see was Toby, who would never come home. Pegasus's safety had been the farthest thing from his mind.

He asked for a trailer to get the stallion back to the tent. He didn't want to lame him more by walking. And he asked one of the animal handlers to send him a vet as soon as possible. He got Pegasus to the tent, rubbed him down with liniment, and wrapped the injured leg, but Pegasus could hardly walk when he came out of the trailer. For any horse, it was a disastrous situation, and Christianna prayed that Pegasus would be the exception. She knew that if they had to put him down, it would kill her husband, and he was half dead with grief already.

For the first time in four years, Nick didn't go to see her act, nor ride in the finale. He stayed in the tent, waiting for the vet, who came after midnight. He seemed to know what he was doing, and he didn't mince words with Nick. "It's bad. I can't tell you it isn't. It's not broken, but I think the ligament is torn, not just strained. You may have to put him down." He was a heavy animal with a powerful body, and thin graceful legs. It was a lethal combination when a horse was injured, and many a racehorse had been shot because they couldn't recover. Nick refused to hear the vet's dire prediction.

"I'm not putting him down," he said grimly.

"We can put him in a sling off the ground to keep his weight off his legs," the vet suggested, "but you can't keep him there forever. Sooner or later, the leg has to heal, or you'll have to face that it won't." The sling sounded like a good idea to Nick, and he asked the vet if he knew any competent horse ranches in the area. He mentioned one in Santa Rosa. Nick sat with Pegasus all night and called the ranch in Santa Rosa in the morning. The day before had been the worst day in his life. Peggy Taylor, the woman on the phone at the ranch, promised to come and see Pegasus that afternoon. She sounded smart, and Nick hoped she knew what she was doing. She said they had saved a horse the year before with the kind of sling the vet was talking about, and they still had it.

Fortunately, the circus was staying in San Francisco for five days, and Nick had time to make a decision before they moved on. He informed the ringmaster that Pegasus would not be performing that night. He could ride on one of the Arabians while Christianna rode Athena. He had a black Arabian that would be a good counterpart to her, and the ringmaster accepted. He couldn't expect him to ride a lame horse.

The woman from the ranch in Santa Rosa came at two o'clock, and after they talked for an hour, she examined Pegasus. Nick liked her. She said they had an excellent vet. Nick agreed to drive Pegasus there before that night's performance. They left at three o'clock, and by five the vet had seen the horse, and they had him in the sling to keep his weight off his legs. It was all they could do for now. And Christianna had come with him. She was worried sick over Nick, even more than the horse. He looked ravaged and exhausted, and she knew he hadn't slept.

At seven they headed back to San Francisco, and arrived at the fairground just in time for their show, with no rehearsal, but Nick was more alert than he'd been the night before, although she knew how tired he was. And this time, he watched the ground for obstructions and random objects. And the black Arabian he rode performed well. The audience scarcely knew the difference, and Athena shone when Nick put her through her paces, with Christianna on her, looking like a fairy princess. The crowd loved it.

For the next three days, he drove to Santa Rosa every day to see Pegasus, and Lucas and Christianna came with him. Nick looked grim and barely spoke to them, and Christianna knew he was thinking about Toby, not the horse, but he concentrated on Pegasus when he got to the ranch. And so far nothing had changed. The vet he met with again said it would take several weeks, or even months if he healed, and in the end they might still have to put him down. Nick's mouth was set in a grim line. And he made the decision to leave him there for now and continue with the tour. Later, he would come back to Santa Rosa on his own, after Oregon and Seattle, and catch up with the circus again after that.

Nick was up most of the night, and Lucas crawled into bed with him that night, and they clung to each other and sobbed.

And when they left San Francisco the next day, Nick looked morbid. He barely spoke to Lucas and Christianna on the drive north. He called the ranch in Santa Rosa twice a day for the next two weeks. Nothing had changed, and he decided to leave Pegasus there for another month. They would be back in the Midwest by then, and he was still using the black Arabian for their act, but he would drive back for Pegasus whenever the vet and Peggy Taylor thought he was ready.

"How is he?" Christianna asked, after the last call.

"The same," he said, disheartened. It was Labor Day weekend, and they were in Nevada. They played Las Vegas the next day, and Nick went out gambling all night and got drunk, which she had never seen him do before. He was miserable all the time now, and he snapped at Lucas, which was also unlike him. He barely spoke to Christianna, and they hadn't made love since Toby died. He was mourning his son, and Pegasus being lame was the final straw. Christianna wondered if he'd ever be the same again. He was a different person, and not one she liked or even knew. She said nothing to anyone about it, except finally Gallina. She sobbed to her that he was so miserable now and nothing she did helped him.

"Give him time. This is the second child he's lost, and a wife. It's a terrible blow. Just pray that Pegasus gets better. That's not helping." Christianna knew her friend was right, and a month later, on the first of October, in Illinois, Peggy called him.

"I think you'd better come out here," she said sadly. "He's not eating, Nick. I think he's just tired of hanging there. Maybe he's losing hope." So was Nick, but he didn't want Pegasus to die. He took two weeks off from the circus, which he had never done before, and his brothers-in-law agreed to drive his horse trailers and tend to his horses with Lucas, and he promised that if he could get back sooner, he would.

He borrowed a truck, and it took him and Christianna two days and nights to drive from Illinois to Santa Rosa, driving hard and sleeping in the truck by the side of the road when they were too tired to continue. And when they got to the ranch and saw Pegasus, Christianna knew it was all over, and so did Nick. He was hanging off his feet and already looked half dead. He had lost all his spirit and his life. The vet was lowering him every few days, and his leg was stronger, but he didn't seem to want to stand up. The vet said he couldn't tell if the leg was weak from lack of exercise and still painful, or if Pegasus just wanted to lie down and die. The vet didn't want to give him the chance to do so, so he'd kept him in the sling, although it was six weeks now since he'd been injured, and Toby had died. Long enough for the Lipizzaner to heal if he was going to, though not long enough for Nick to recover from losing Toby. He was still deeply depressed, and even more so when he saw the horse.

Nick stroked his head and spoke to him softly, and Pegasus seemed to revive a little when he saw him. He tossed his head and whinnied and seemed to recognize Christianna as well. It broke her heart and Nick's to see the condition he was in. He looked like a very tired old horse, although he was only eight years old, which was young for a Lipizzaner, and he had a good fifteen or sixteen years ahead of him, if he chose to live. But he didn't seem to want to.

Peggy offered to let them stay with her for the night, and they thanked her for the small guestroom. She didn't say it, but Nick had to make a decision about Pegasus. He was avoiding it, but it was cruel to let Pegasus languish if he wasn't going to recover. And thinking about it, he went out to the barn that night. He was there for a long time, and Christianna followed him there two hours later, worried about Nick. Losing Pegasus was not going to help him get over losing Toby, or even adjust. It would only make it worse.