“What are they doing, Sofia?” Jane asked.
“Giving him electricity,” Sofia said.
“But the electricity is what did this! He does not need more of it!” Jane announced so loud Sofia jumped. “Is it working, at least?” she asked then.
Sofia shook her head.
“Charging three hundred,” the cart man called. “Clear.”
Dr. Marks placed the irons down once more. Fred lifted and flopped. His eyes remained closed.
Dr. Marks lowered his irons. He scratched his face.
Jane then had the grim notion, the one afflicting fools throughout the ages, of only realizing the worth of something once it was gone. Throughout almost the entirety of her acquaintance with Fred, Jane had been preoccupied with the issue of returning home, concerning herself primarily with reversing a spell she considered to be faulty. But Mrs. Sinclair had made no error, she realized now. Jane had not come to the twenty-first century by mistake. The witch had promised to take Jane to her one true love, and she had delivered.
Jane’s legacy in this time, her books and her authorial reputation, were indeed disappearing in front of her eyes, because a return to her own time to create them was growing less likely by the day. But her unlikelihood of returning home was not due to her being so enamored by this era that she felt obliged to stay in it; it was not the horseless steel carriages, the tube trains, and the abundance of food that compelled Jane to remain. It was a person. He had bought Jane sea-bathing clothes and danced with her. As a child, he had tried to walk across England to save his dying mother and almost managed the task. Now he verged on departing the earth without ever knowing how much Jane loved him.
Was it always supposed to end this way? Mrs. Sinclair’s promise had mentioned nothing of electricity or destroyed heart muscle. She had said nothing about him surviving once Jane got there. Perhaps this stood as her lot, to meet him briefly before he departed. What a cruel thing. How should she act now? Should she thank the gods for the short time they’d had together? Speak wistfully in hushed tones? She wished it were not so. But then who was she in the scheme of these things?
As he died there before her on that splendid twenty-first-century hospital bed, surrounded by experts and wizards who could not make him well, Jane wondered if she would go on breathing in a world without him in it.
Then the box beeped.
The group all snapped their heads toward it. It beeped once more, and then again.
“A-fib,” announced the strawberry-haired woman, in more twenty-first-century medical jargon. Someone else nodded. Another smiled.
“Is he alive?” Jane demanded.
“Yes,” Sofia cried. “I think!”
Dr. Marks nodded. “Let’s get him to theater.” The group moved in balletic coordination, bundling blankets up, separating tubes from the wall and placing boxes on Fred’s bed.
“Where are you taking him?” Sofia bellowed.
“There’s more work to be done on his heart,” Dr. Marks told her. “He needs surgery.”
Six people took hold of the bed and wheeled Fred from the room, past Jane and Sofia. His eyes stayed closed and his head rocked as they moved him. A tube protruded from his mouth.
“Take care with his head,” Jane whispered, pulling Sofia out of the way.
They rolled him down the hall. He disappeared through swinging doors.
Sofia screamed to a woman in green who sat behind a desk to explain what was happening.
Jane stood in the doorway and watched the place where he went. There was more work to be done on his heart. Now she carried around something in her own heart, too. She wondered how its weight could be borne in her one little chest.
Chapter Forty-Two
Jane returned to the room where they had waited before. Sofia joined her.
“I’m a selfish woman, Jane. I’m afraid if I lose my brother, I might do something stupid like be sad for the rest of my days.”
Jane touched her hand. “You must be calm, Sofia. The physician said the operation will take one hour. It has only been three minutes.”
“If he leaves me, I will have no one left. I will die alone naked in bed like Marilyn Monroe after a barbiturate supper.”
Jane had long stopped asking Sofia what she meant with her references to people and places Jane could not possibly know anything of, so she simply nodded and smiled and offered what best encouragement she could. “I am still here, Sofia. I will not leave you.” Sofia sat down next to her.
“You say that now,” she said. She paused. “Probably not the time to tell you this, but Mrs. Sinclair writes you a letter in 1810. Make of that what you will.”
Jane shifted in her seat. “Mrs. Sinclair? She writes me a letter?”
Sofia nodded. “The letter still exists. We found a book about it.”
Jane considered this. “What says the letter?”
“We don’t know. But I could hazard a guess.”
“You think the letter explains how to reverse the spell?”
“I can’t think what else she’d write to you about, can you? You two weren’t pen pals.”
Jane nodded, stunned. Her mind raced. “Thank you, Sofia. You did everything you said you would.”
“You doubted me?”
“Not for a second. But how can I ever repay you?”
“No repayment necessary.” They sat in silence. Jane knew she should feel happy: she now had the means to return home. She would see Mama and Papa again, and she would write her books. “Unless you don’t want me to find the letter,” Sofia said after a time, staring straight ahead.
Jane stared ahead also. “Might you delay your location of Mrs. Sinclair’s correspondence, for a week, perhaps? I only ask, as I feel it would be impolite of me to leave you at this juncture, with a family member in the hospital and all.”
“Okay.” Sofia touched her arm. “For politeness’ sake.”
Jane sensed Sofia wanted to say more but was thankful she did not.
THE OPERATION DID not require one hour. Dr. Marks came to them four hours
