Despair washed over her. She felt the hidalgo's arm go around her shoulder. Unthinkingly, again, she leaned into that comfort. Tears began filling her eyes.
The doctor saw her face and came over to her, shaking his head. "I think he will survive, Miss-ah-"
"Abrabanel," said the hidalgo. Rebecca felt a moment's surprise that he had remembered the name.
The doctor nodded. "Yes. I think your father will live. But-" He hesitated, making vague gestures with his hands. As if groping for something. "We do not have the medication that I wanted most. The"-again, that strange term: clot-busting?-"drugs."
The Moor sighed. "He will lose some of his heart capacity. But I have sent people into town to get"-she recognized the Greek term beta; not the rest; and there was a substance he called niter-something. "That will help."
Hope flared. "He will live?"
"I think so. But he will be incapacitated for some time. Days, possibly weeks. And will have to be very careful thereafter."
"What can I do?" whispered Rebecca.
"For the moment, nothing." The Moor turned away and went to the farmer. A moment later he was back at work, surrounded by assistants. She saw that he was going to suture the man's wounds, and was deeply impressed by his obvious skill and confidence. She felt her anxiety begin to lift. Whatever could be done for her father would be done.
The room was now packed with people. Rebecca realized that she was in their way and edged to the door. A moment later, unprotesting, she allowed the hidalgo to lead her out of the room. Out of the room, down a long corridor, down another, into a library.
She was stunned by the number of books. There were many young people gathered in the library, talking excitedly. Most of them were young women-girls really. Rebecca was amazed to see so many prostitutes in a library, wearing clothing more immodest than any permitted even in Amsterdam's notorious brothel district.
She glanced up at the hidalgo. Odd. He seemed to take no notice of the girls.
They are not prostitutes, Rebecca realized immediately. That scandalous show of bare leg is simply their custom.
She pondered the matter, as the hidalgo gently steered her onto a couch. "I will be back in a moment," he said. "First I have to make a"-garble-"call, in order to arrange for you and your father. They've got the"-garble-"system working again."
He was gone for a few minutes. Rebecca pondered the strange term he had used. She recognized the Greek prefix "tele." A long call? she wondered. No. Distant.
Mainly, however, Rebecca spent the time trying to settle her nerves. It was not easy, with all those youngsters staring at her. They were not impolite, simply curious, but Rebecca was relieved when the hidalgo returned. He sat next to her.
"This all seems very strange to you," he said.
Rebecca nodded. "Who are you?"
Fumbling, obviously confused himself, the hidalgo began to explain. They talked for at least two hours. Rebecca became so engrossed in the conversation that she was even able to ignore her fears for her father.
By the end, Rebecca was answering far more questions than she asked. She seemed to accept the reality, in some ways, much better than the hidalgo. She was surprised, at first, because of the man's obvious intelligence. But eventually she understood. He had none of her training in logic and philosophy.
"So you see," she explained, "it is not really so impossible. Not at all. The nature of time has always been a mystery. I think Averroes was right-" She flushed, slightly. "Well, my father thinks-but I agree-"
She stopped abruptly. The hidalgo was no longer listening to her. Well, not exactly that. He was listening to her, but not to her words. Smiling with his eyes even more than his lips.
Blue eyes held her silent.
"Keep talking," he murmured. "Please."
Flushing deeply, now. Silent. Flushing.
The Moorish doctor rescued her. He strode into the library and came up to them.
"Your father is stable, Miss Abrabanel," he said. "The best thing to do is get him into a bed and make him comfortable." The doctor smiled ruefully. "Away from this madhouse." He cast a questioning eye at the hidalgo.
Michael nodded. "I already sent word into town." He gave Rebecca a glance which combined care with-puzzlement? "Under the circumstances, I thought-"
There came another interruption. An elderly couple was entering the library. They spotted the hidalgo and approached. Their faces were creased with concern.
Michael rose and introduced them. "Miss Abrabanel, this is Morris and Judith Roth. They have agreed to provide lodgings for you and your father."
The rest of the day was a blur. Her father was carried into a large vehicle shaped like a box. The words "Marion County Rescue" were emblazoned on the sides. She followed with the hidalgo, in his own vehicle. The hidalgo's men had already loaded all of the Abrabanels' possessions in the back of the vehicle. In a very short time-so fast! so smooth!-they drew up before a large two-story house. Her father was carried up the stairs on a stretcher, into the house, up the stairs into a bedroom, and made comfortable. Rebecca and he whispered for a few minutes. Nothing more than words of affection. Then he fell asleep.
The hidalgo left, at some point. He murmured something about danger needing to be watched for. He gave her shoulder a quick reassuring squeeze before he went. His departure left her feeling hollow.
Everything was rolling over her now. Her mind felt adrift. Mrs. Roth led her downstairs into the salon and eased her into another couch. "I'll get you some tea," she said.
"I'll get it, Judith," said her husband. "You stay here with Miss Abrabanel."
Rebecca's eyes roamed the room. They lingered on the bookcase for a moment. For a longer moment, on the strange lamps glowing with such a steady light.
Everything seemed vague to her. Her eyes moved on to the fireplace. Up to the mantel.
Froze there.
Atop the mantel, perched in plain sight, was a menorah.
She jerked her head sideways, staring at Judith Roth. Back to the menorah. "You are Jewish?" she cried.
A day's terror-a lifetime's fear-erupted in an instant. Tears flooded her eyes. Her chest and shoulder heaved. A moment later, Judith Roth was sitting next to her, cradling her like a child.
Rebecca sobbed and sobbed. Desperately trying to control herself, so she could ask the only question which seemed to matter in the entire universe. Choking on the words, trying to force them through terror and hope.
Finally, she managed. "Does he know?" she gasped.
Mrs. Roth frowned. The question, obviously, meant nothing to her.
Rebecca clutched her throat and practically squeezed down the sobs. "Him. The hidalgo."
Still frowning, still uncomprehending. Hope burned terror like the sun destroys a fog.
"Michael. Does he know?" Her eyes were fixed on the menorah. Mrs. Roth's gaze followed. Her own eyes widened.
"You mean Mike?" The elderly woman stared at Rebecca for a moment, her jaw slack with surprise. "Well, of course he knows. He's known us all his life. That's why he asked us to put you up, when he called. He said he thought-he didn't understand why, he just said he had a bad feeling-but he thought it would be best if Jewish people-"