The Snow Gypsy(84)
“I won’t let her die!” Rose bent over the tiny feverish body, her tears falling onto the livid crimson spots on Nieve’s chest. “There must be something you can do!”
“If she was older, I’d try injecting her with penicillin,” the doctor said. “That sometimes works. But she’s too small. Her heart’s laboring too much to take it. All you can do is keep her cool and give her water when she asks for it. Try to resist getting too close to her—otherwise you might catch it, too.”
When he had gone, Zoltan gathered Rose up in his arms, stroking her hair while she sobbed into his shirt.
“You haven’t eaten all day,” he whispered. “Let me get you something.”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t,” she mumbled.
“But you must try, Rose. And you must get some sleep. You need to keep your strength up. We can take it in turns to sit with her.” He eased her into the armchair and went to fill the kettle. “Oh, I forgot!” His hand went to the pocket of his trousers. “This came for you.” He handed her a crumpled envelope with Spanish stamps. “The postman saw me in the street—he said it arrived this morning.”
The nervous anticipation Rose would have felt at finally receiving a letter from Granada was completely extinguished by the grim reality of the sick child in the next room. She opened the envelope with a blank face, hardly able to take in the pomegranate symbol stamped in the top right-hand corner and the words “Oficina del Alcalde” inscribed below it. Her eyes widened as she scanned the handwritten lines. It was in English.
“It’s from the mayor’s office.” She turned it over. The letter was signed Se?ora Aurora Fernandez. The mayor’s wife. She flipped the sheet over again, her heart racing as she read what the woman had written:
Dear Miss Daniel,
Thank you for bringing the case of Se?orita Lola Aragon to my attention.
While there can be no doubt that she is guilty of manslaughter, there is a case to be made that the crime was committed in self-defense.
I am writing to let you know that your friend is to be released, with immediate effect, in the light of new evidence about the character of the deceased man and his behavior on the night of the incident. She has asked me to write to inform you of this. She awaits the return of you and your daughter to Granada at the earliest possible opportunity.
“What?” Zoltan closed the space between them with a single stride.
Rose sat motionless, staring, unblinking, at the letter in her hand. “Lola’s been released.” They were words she had feared she would never say. If it had arrived a day earlier, she would have been dancing around the room. “She wants me to take Nieve back to Granada. Oh, Zoltan—what on earth am I going to tell her?”
Chapter 31
Granada, Spain: The next day
Lola woke in a panic, sweat beading her forehead. She sat bolt upright in the dark, searching the shadows. The smell was different. The stomach-churning stink of every kind of human waste mixed with the stinging fumes of disinfectant had been replaced by something fragrant and intoxicating. Coffee.
She put out her hand, feeling the smooth, starched texture of a newly laundered sheet instead of the roughness of a prison blanket. “I’m home,” she whispered. “I’m home.”
She slid her legs over the edge of the bed, feeling with her toes for her shoes. It felt strange and wonderful, being able to walk to the bedroom door and open it. Cristóbal was in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a cup, an unlit cigarette sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
“Sorry—did I wake you?” He put down the pot and struck a match. “I didn’t mean to be back late.” He gave her a sheepish smile as he lit the cigarette. “You know how these things go on sometimes.”
A month ago she would have given him a tongue-lashing. Told him how selfish and ill disciplined he was. But the relief at seeing him—of having the solid familiarity of his face there in front of her—drove all such thoughts from her mind.
“Would you like some?” He reached for another cup.
Lola sat down at the kitchen table, her eyes ranging over the blue-painted chairs, the flower-patterned curtains, the golden-haloed picture of Jesus hanging on the opposite wall. Even in artificial light the room felt vibrant, alive, the objects in it a source of wonder. How could she not have noticed the colors in this little house? How had she ever allowed herself to take things like a table and a cup of coffee for granted?
“Did you get much sleep?” Cristóbal sat down beside her. “I imagine it’s pretty hard to adjust after being cooped up in a place like that.”
She nodded. “I keep waking up thinking I’m still there. I’m glad you’re home. It’s reassuring, hearing you moving about. I wouldn’t have liked to come back to an empty house.” She took a sip of coffee, savoring the sensation on her tongue. “You must be missing Juanita and the children.”
He sucked on his cigarette. “I thought I’d go and visit them today. Will you come?”
“I’d like to,” Lola replied. “But I’m hoping Rose and Nieve will be here soon. Aurora promised to write the day they released me. Rose should have got the letter yesterday at the latest. With a bit of luck, they’ll be on the bus this morning.”
“Do you think it’s safe—for Nieve to come back here?”