Margaret leaned into Emmie, burying her head in Emmie’s chest. “If it were only Courcelles . . . It’s all of this. Everything since we arrived, all the widows and the wounded and the air raids and the constant banging of the guns. I can’t sleep at night without seeing those faces. Faces without noses, without chins, without ears—”
“You mean the ones in the hospital? But they’re making them better, they’re working wonders. . . .”
“Nightmares. They’re making walking nightmares. And those are soldiers. This boy— Oh, Emmie!”
“Shhhh,” said Emmie, cradling her as though she were one of Emmie’s little brothers, having a nightmare.
Margaret pulled away from her, staring up at her with haunted eyes. “He was only four when they did this to him, Emmie. Four. I’ll never be able to unsee that—I’ll remember it when I sleep. I’ll remember it when I die. Oh Lord, I’m going to be ill again.”
“Let me get you some water.” Emmie lurched to her feet.
Her hands were shaking as she poured water into a tumbler, slopping it over the sides. Only four. She remembered holding her brother Bobby at four. Bobby had always had nightmares and Nurse wasn’t the coddling sort. So Emmie had gone. She could remember the feel of that little body, the smell of his head, the trust. Only four.
Making a decision, Emmie reached into the bag she took with her on her rounds, with its meager supply of ambrine, headache powders—and sleeping drafts. She took out a twist of white paper, emptying the powder into the glass.
“I thought I could bear it,” Margaret said plaintively. “I really did.”
“I know it’s hard,” said Emmie. She held out the glass to Margaret, feeling like Lady Macbeth. But Macbeth murdered sleep and Emmie was trying to bring sleep, so it really wasn’t at all the same. At least, she hoped not.
Water darkened the blanket as Margaret tried to take the cup. “If Beth had been here . . . At least you and Kate have each other. It makes it easier to have someone. You need someone here.”
Emmie sat down next to Margaret, helping to guide the cup to her lips. “You’ll feel better after a sleep.”
“But I can’t sleep. . . . If I dream . . .”
“I’ll sit by you,” promised Emmie, aware that it was so little, so painfully little. Courcelles had been her task, her responsibility. She’d just—she’d wanted to feel like she was doing something for Fran. It had been irredeemably selfish. “I’ll sit by you, and if you feel a nightmare coming on, I’ll be here with you.”
“I wish—I wish I were brave . . . like you. . . .”
“You are brave,” Emmie said, stroking Margaret’s hair. “You’re brave to have come here at all. You’ll realize that. Once you’ve had a good sleep.”
“—can’t—sleep—” Margaret’s shivers were subsiding, her body relaxing into sleep.
Emmie hoped she hadn’t misjudged the dose. She hadn’t realized how thin Margaret had become, much thinner than when they’d set sail on the Rochambeau. She hadn’t realized a lot of things. Gently, Emmie tucked an extra blanket over Margaret, one of Fran’s blankets.
“She’s sleeping,” Emmie whispered as Kate came through the door. Not that she needed to whisper. With that much sedative, nothing short of a German invasion should wake Margaret now. “Are they waiting dinner for me? I don’t want to leave Margaret. I promised I’d stay by her.”
“No. They’ve all eaten.” Kate’s voice sounded funny. Emmie couldn’t see her face properly. Darkness had fallen, and Emmie hadn’t thought to light the lamp.
Emmie rose very carefully, trying not to jostle Margaret. “What is it? What’s happened? Why did they want to see you?”
“Mrs. Rutherford is resigning as director.”
Emmie caught her shin on the edge of her trunk, barely noticing the pain. “But . . . that’s impossible. Mrs. Rutherford is the Unit.”
“Not according to the committee.” Kate kept her voice low, glancing back over her shoulder. The walls of the barrack weren’t particularly thick. “Mrs. Rutherford is being forced to step down, effective immediately. They’re going to put it about that she’s resigning for health reasons.”
“I don’t understand.” Emmie realized she had her hand to her mouth, like the heroine in a melodrama. She forced herself to lower it. “I know Maud was trying—but why would the committee . . . ?”