“The planes seem to be moving away,” she said, but he shook his head, still with that attentive look. She raised her head, straining to catch the clang of ambulance bells, of voices.
The raiders’ drone faded away, but she still couldn’t hear anything except a creak as a piece of the wreckage gave way. And the faint hiss of escaping gas.
And why had she ever thought she stood a chance against the entire space-time continuum? Why had she ever believed she could save Sir Godfrey’s life, could stop history in its blind attempt to correct itself?
I am so sorry, Sir Godfrey, she thought. I am so sorry, Colin, and she must be crying. Hot drops were splashing onto the back of her hand, onto the compress, onto Sir Godfrey’s already soaked chest.
“ ‘Boy, why are you crying?’ ” he said, and at any other time that line from the play he most despised would have made her laugh, but not now. Not now.
“Because I couldn’t save”—her voice broke—“your life.”
“What?” he said, and his voice regained some of its old strength. “ ‘You lie! Thrice now hast thou plucked me from the jaws of death. And in repayment of that solemn debt, would I save your life now.’ ”
She no longer knew what play he was quoting from, but it didn’t matter. You can’t save it, she thought. We’re both done for. And she remembered the man looking up at the incendiary halfway up St. Paul’s dome saying, “She’s done for.”
But it hadn’t been. The fire watch had saved it. And it might look as though they were done for, but she didn’t have to put out twenty-eight incendiaries, didn’t have to keep putting them out night after night. All she had to do was keep Sir Godfrey alive and conscious till help came.
“We shall never give in,” she murmured, “never surrender,” and bent over the hole to see if she could do something to stop the gas.
The hiss was louder from the left. She told Sir Godfrey to turn his head to the right and to breathe shallowly, wishing she’d obeyed all those government directives to “carry your gas mask with you at all times,” and tried to pinpoint the source of the gas. It was coming from a narrow gap between two of the seats. If she could block the gap with something …
All that was left of her costume was the bathing suit. It wouldn’t be enough to fill the space, and at any rate, she didn’t think she could wriggle out of it with only one hand free. And she couldn’t go fetch something. He’d begin bleeding again. But she had to block the space up somehow, and quickly, before the gas rendered him unconscious.
If it hadn’t already. “Sir Godfrey?”
“What is it?” His voice was already drowsy, blurred.
You need to keep him talking, she thought.
“Sir Godfrey, you asked me which speech I wanted. Do the one from that first night we acted together— Prospero’s speech. ‘Our revels now are ended—’ ” she prompted.
“My dear, our revels now are ended,” he said.
“I still want to hear it. ‘These our actors—’ ”
“ ‘These our actors,’ ” he said, “ ‘as I foretold you, were all spirits …’ ”
Good, that should keep him going for a bit, she thought, looking about for something to stuff the gap with. The stuffing from a seat would do it, but all of the ones within her reach were intact, with the playbills still lying on them.
The playbills. Keeping her right hand clamped down on Sir Godfrey’s chest, she shimmied carefully backward and reached behind and around for them with her free hand.
They weren’t booklets. They were only single sheets. The bloody paper shortage, she thought, wadding them up and pushing them into the space one after the other. She could smell the gas now.
“ ‘Are melted into air, into thin air,’ ” Sir Godfrey said, “ ‘and like …’ ” His voice trailed off.
“ ‘And like the baseless fabric,’ ” she prompted, stretching her arm out again, this time in front of her.
“ ‘And like the baseless fabric of this vision,’ ” Sir Godfrey said. “ ‘The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces …’ ”
The tips of her fingers touched something wide and flat. A piece of wood, or plaster. She leaned farther forward, stretching her arm out till it hurt, but it wasn’t enough to do more than touch it.
Of course not, she thought, trying from another angle. This is the correction.
She felt something shift under her hand. It was a snapped-off piece of one of the openwork chair supports, too small to cover the space even if it were solid. But large enough that it might bring the chunk of wood within reach.
She jabbed the end awkwardly into the wood, like a fork, and dragged it toward her till it was close enough to grasp. She let go of the support so she could grab the wood and then thought better of it and laid the support on Sir Godfrey’s chest while she picked it up.
“ ‘And like this unsubstantial pageant faded,’ ” he murmured, “ ‘leave not a wrack behind.’ ”
She shoved the wood up tight against the space the gas was issuing from. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it should stop most of the gas.
I hope, she thought. When she leaned down to jam it more tightly against the space, she could still smell gas. Which meant they must get out of here.
But at least she had bought them a bit of time. She resumed feeling about the space next to the hole, this time for another chair support or something else metal.
A piece of pipe, sticking out of the debris. The gas line? she wondered. She picked the openwork support up off Sir Godfrey’s chest.
