the outer wrapping, and inside that were two pillows, a quilt and what appeared to be an infant's receiving blanket.
With more urgency than a child on Christmas morning, Lucy removed the wrappings, hoping the cat wouldn't bolt once she freed it.
It didn't bolt. It wasn't a cat.
Lucy shrieked again, this time with surprise, not fear.
Her shriek caused the little creature to w«il in terror, round mouth open like the maw of a hatchling wanting to be fed.
Except it wasn't a hatchling, either. It was a baby. No, a toddler.
Lucy couldn't speak, couldn't even think. The firelight winked over the child, who kept wailing and pedaling chubby legs under a long pale gown.
"Oh, God," Lucy whispered. "Oh, Lord above." She could think of nothing more to say, and had no idea what to do. A baby. She'd saved somebody's baby.
She couldn't tell if it was male or female, though she saw with some relief that it was moving and bawling with great vigor. The fall from the window hadn't hurt it in the least. It must be hardier than it looked, then.
"Who...what on earth am I going to do with you?" Lucy asked, looking the child in the eye.
Something in her tone or her look must have caught the baby's attention, for it stopped crying and simply stared at her.
"Well?" she asked, encouraged.
The baby took a deep breath. Lucy actually thought it might speak to her, though she realized it was a very young child. Then it let loose with another wail. As she watched, it rolled over and crawled away, trailing the little blanket in the mud.
Lucy was completely at a loss. She'd never seen a baby up close before, but the sight of it, so helpless and lost, sparked a powerful instinct in her. She reached out and touched it, then tried to gather it up in her arms.
It was awkward, like trying to hold a wriggling litter of puppies, all waving limbs, surprisingly powerful.
"Come now," Lucy said. "There, there."
The baby quieted when she spoke, and stilled its flailing for a moment. The heated sky glowed ominously, and she knew she had to get them both to safety. When she stood, the child clung to her, its tiny hands clutching at her and its legs circling her waist.
"You poor thing," she said, eyeing the burning sky. "We have to go. Once you're safe, we'll find out who you belong to."
But in her heart of hearts, she already knew that the child's mother had perished in the collapsing hotel. Somehow she would have to find its surviving family. Not now, though. Now, her challenge was to make her way to her parents' home.
"Come along," she said. Her hand curved around the baby's head. The curly, fair hair was soft as down. "I'll take care of you." Keeping up a patter of encouraging words, she struggled with the ungainly burden of the child, climbing
the riverbank toward the bridge. "You'll be safe with me."
"Oh, thank the Heavenly Father above, you're safe." Patience Gloriana Washington opened the door of the huge mansion on North Avenue to let Lucy in. Patience wore her plain preacher's garb, a habit she'd adopted when she'd embraced poverty, but no somber robe could mask her naturally regal air. Though she had never set foot outside Chicago, she resembled an African princess. Famous for her magnetic preaching in Chicago's largest Negro church, Patience was a close friend of the Hathaway family. Her older sister, Willa Jean, had been the Hathaways' housekeeper since the war ended, and Lucy and Patience had practically grown up together.
"Land a-mercy, what you got there, girl?" she asked, regarding the muddy, bedraggled bundle in Lucy's arms.
Lucy sagged against the door, exhausted, her arms shaking from carrying the baby all the way from the bridge. About ten blocks ago, it had fallen dead asleep, its head heavy on her shoulder, and now it rested there, ungainly as a sack of potatoes.
"It's a baby," she whispered, pushing aside the blanket to reveal a head of wispy golden curls. "Its mother bundled it up and dropped it from a window while the
With more urgency than a child on Christmas morning, Lucy removed the wrappings, hoping the cat wouldn't bolt once she freed it.
It didn't bolt. It wasn't a cat.
Lucy shrieked again, this time with surprise, not fear.
Her shriek caused the little creature to w«il in terror, round mouth open like the maw of a hatchling wanting to be fed.
Except it wasn't a hatchling, either. It was a baby. No, a toddler.
Lucy couldn't speak, couldn't even think. The firelight winked over the child, who kept wailing and pedaling chubby legs under a long pale gown.
"Oh, God," Lucy whispered. "Oh, Lord above." She could think of nothing more to say, and had no idea what to do. A baby. She'd saved somebody's baby.
She couldn't tell if it was male or female, though she saw with some relief that it was moving and bawling with great vigor. The fall from the window hadn't hurt it in the least. It must be hardier than it looked, then.
"Who...what on earth am I going to do with you?" Lucy asked, looking the child in the eye.
Something in her tone or her look must have caught the baby's attention, for it stopped crying and simply stared at her.
"Well?" she asked, encouraged.
The baby took a deep breath. Lucy actually thought it might speak to her, though she realized it was a very young child. Then it let loose with another wail. As she watched, it rolled over and crawled away, trailing the little blanket in the mud.
Lucy was completely at a loss. She'd never seen a baby up close before, but the sight of it, so helpless and lost, sparked a powerful instinct in her. She reached out and touched it, then tried to gather it up in her arms.
It was awkward, like trying to hold a wriggling litter of puppies, all waving limbs, surprisingly powerful.
"Come now," Lucy said. "There, there."
The baby quieted when she spoke, and stilled its flailing for a moment. The heated sky glowed ominously, and she knew she had to get them both to safety. When she stood, the child clung to her, its tiny hands clutching at her and its legs circling her waist.
"You poor thing," she said, eyeing the burning sky. "We have to go. Once you're safe, we'll find out who you belong to."
But in her heart of hearts, she already knew that the child's mother had perished in the collapsing hotel. Somehow she would have to find its surviving family. Not now, though. Now, her challenge was to make her way to her parents' home.
"Come along," she said. Her hand curved around the baby's head. The curly, fair hair was soft as down. "I'll take care of you." Keeping up a patter of encouraging words, she struggled with the ungainly burden of the child, climbing
the riverbank toward the bridge. "You'll be safe with me."
"Oh, thank the Heavenly Father above, you're safe." Patience Gloriana Washington opened the door of the huge mansion on North Avenue to let Lucy in. Patience wore her plain preacher's garb, a habit she'd adopted when she'd embraced poverty, but no somber robe could mask her naturally regal air. Though she had never set foot outside Chicago, she resembled an African princess. Famous for her magnetic preaching in Chicago's largest Negro church, Patience was a close friend of the Hathaway family. Her older sister, Willa Jean, had been the Hathaways' housekeeper since the war ended, and Lucy and Patience had practically grown up together.
"Land a-mercy, what you got there, girl?" she asked, regarding the muddy, bedraggled bundle in Lucy's arms.
Lucy sagged against the door, exhausted, her arms shaking from carrying the baby all the way from the bridge. About ten blocks ago, it had fallen dead asleep, its head heavy on her shoulder, and now it rested there, ungainly as a sack of potatoes.
"It's a baby," she whispered, pushing aside the blanket to reveal a head of wispy golden curls. "Its mother bundled it up and dropped it from a window while the
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