"I won't wear it now, I promise," she said. "Not even lipstick, though I do like it. But... if. Promise me, Papa."
"I promise." His voice sounded hoarse, strained, unlike Ronsard's normal suave tones.
She reached over and patted his knee, the child comforting the parent. "You may take the case," she said, "and keep it safe for me. That way you will always know where it is."
He lifted her out of the wheelchair and settled her on his lap, taking care not to dislodge the oxygen tube. She was so frail, so tiny, her legs dangled like a kindergartner's. He couldn't speak for a moment, his dark head bent so that his cheek rested on the top of her head.
"You won't need it for a long, long time," he finally said.
"I know." Her eyes, though, held a different knowledge.
She seemed to be tiring. He touched her cheek. "Do you want to lie down for a while?"
"On the longue," she said. "There is a movie I wish to see."
Bemadette came over and pushed the wheelchair and its container of oxygen while he carried Laure to the plush chaise longue and carefully placed her on it. Under the rose stain, the child's lips held a tinge of blue. He covered her legs with a soft blanket while Bernadette arranged the pillows just so, propping her in a comfortable position.
"There!" she said, squirming back against the pillows. "I am in the perfect position for watching movies." She gave him a sly look. "It is a romance."
He had recovered his aplomb. "You will give me gray hair," he announced, feigning a scowl. "A romance!"
"With sex," she added mischievously.
"Tell me no more," he said, holding up his hands as if to ward off anything else she might say. "I don't want to know. A papa can bear only so much. Tell Madame Jamieson good day, and we'll leave you to your romance."
Laure held out her hand. "Good day, madame. That was fun! Will you visit me again?"
"Of course," Niema said, smiling despite the ache in her chest. "I've very much enjoyed meeting you, mademoiselle. Your papa is lucky to have you as his daughter."
Laure looked up at her father, and again the expression in her eyes was far too old for her years. "I am the one who is lucky," she said.
He kissed her, touched her cheek, and left her with a smile. His grip on Niema's hand, however, was almost bone-shattering.
When they were out in the hallway, he said, "Dieu," in a stifled tone, and bent over from the waist, bracing his hands on his knees while he took deep breaths.
Niema automatically reached out to offer him comfort. She hesitated, her hand in midair, then lightly touched his back.
After a moment he straightened and walked farther down the hall away from Laure's rooms before he spoke again. "Sometimes it is more than I can bear," he said, his voice still constrained. "I apologize. I hadn't realized she-I've tried to keep from her how very ill she is, but she's so intelligent..." The words trailed off.
"What's wrong with her?" Niema asked gently. There was a decanter of liquor and a set of glasses on a side table. She went over to it and poured him a hefty portion of whatever liquor it was. He sat on a nearby chair and downed it without question.
"Too much," he said, turning the empty glass around and around in his hands. "If it was any one thing, there would be things that could be done. She has a defective heart, only one kidney, and cystic fibrosis. The CF seems to affect her digestive system more than her lungs, or she likely would have already-"
He broke off, his throat working. "There are new drugs that help, but it's still so difficult for her to get the nutrients she needs. She eats constantly, but she doesn't grow and doesn't gain weight. What growth she has had strains her heart. A heart transplant is out of the question because of the cystic fibrosis." He gave a bitter little smile that wasn't a smile at all. "Finding a suitable heart is almost impossible. She would have to have a young child's heart, because of her size, and donor hearts from children are rare. And her blood type is A negative, which narrows the chance of finding a heart almost to zero. Even if one came available, the opinion of the medical establishment is that a healthy heart shouldn't be wasted on someone who . .. who has so many other problems."
There was nothing to say. She couldn't offer meaningless phrases of hope when Laure's condition couldn't get much more hopeless.
"I've been trying to find a heart on the black market for years." He stared blindly at the glass in his hands. "I pour money into research on genetic treatments for CF, on new drugs, anything that will buy her some time. If I can fix just one thing-just one!" he said fiercely. "Then she will have a chance."
Realization slammed into her like a blow. "That's why you-" She stopped, not needing to finish the sentence.
He finished it for her. "Became an illegal arms dealer? Yes. I had to have enormous sums of money, and quickly. The choice was drugs or weapons. I chose weapons. If anything-anything-happens that will increase her chances, whether it's a heart miraculously coming available or a new treatment, I have to be ready immediately with the cash. The research is also hideously expensive." He shrugged. "She is my child," he said simply. "The devil may have my soul, but he's welcome to it if she can live."
She had known there were layers to him. Except for his occupation, he had seemed to be an honorable man, as if he completely separated the two halves of his life. What he did was abhorrent, but he did it out of his consuming love for his child. She ached for him, and for Laure.