Shadow of the Moon by M. M. Kaye Page A

gutters at a roof’s edge, and to frost patterns on a window-pane; to grey skies and softly falling snow. In imagination she touched the snow and felt its crisp coldness; plunged her arms in it and held handfuls of it to her burning cheeks. If only she could lie quite, quite still - if she did not move or breathe - perhaps she could will it to be true.
    The tiny creature beside her moved and uttered a thin cry, and the weak sound seemed to penetrate through the mists that were clouding her brain. She turned her head, forcing open her heavy eyelids, and looked at the child who lay beside her.
    It was so small that it seemed more like a doll than a living infant, and it was not red as most new-born babies, but milk-white, with hair like curling black silk. Sabrina’s arm tightened weakly about the small bundle, and the shadow of a smile curved her mouth.
    â€˜Is she not beautiful, your daughter?’ said Juanita.
    â€˜Like winter—’ whispered Sabrina.
    â€˜Like what,
querida
?’
    â€˜Winter. At Ware. Snow and dark trees … winter …’ Her voice failed and her eyes closed again; but she was not asleep.
    The heat of the small room played upon her exhausted body like an invisible flame. Outside the shuttered window the sun beat down upon the city like a giant hammer, and beyond and around the city walls lay the scorching plains, stretching endlessly away to the burning horizon. Somewhere out there lay Marcos.
Marcos - Marcos
! Was he dead already? Perhaps he would never know that he had a daughter … a baby who looked as white and as small as a snowflake.
    A sudden sharp fear - a purely maternal fear - took possession of Sabrina. If Marcos were to die - if she herself were to die - what would become of the child? Emily will take care of it! … But Emily was dead. Juanita?
No - No
! thought Sabrina, agonized. Not this life for my baby!
    Grandpapa! He would take care of her child. He loved her. Those angry letters meant nothing; it was only Grandpapa in a rage. Sabrina was aware of a quivering sense of urgency. Of time running out like sand between her fingers. She must send a letter to Ware, at once, before it was too late. She set her teeth and summoning up all her will-power, dragged herself up onto the pillow. There was a quick rustle of silk and Juanita was beside her.
    â€˜What is it,
cara mía?
Lie still.’
    â€˜I must write a letter,’ whispered Sabrina. ‘A letter to Ware … I must write at once.’
    â€˜Tomorrow,
hija
- tomorrow—’
    â€˜No,’ said Sabrina desperately, struggling feebly against the restraining hands. ‘Now. At once.’
    â€˜Then I shall write it for you,’ said Juanita soothingly. ‘You shall tell me what to say. See, I will sit beside you and write.’
    So Juanita wrote at Sabrina’s dictation; writing down the words that came so slowly and with such difficulty in that soft gasping whisper. She wrote in French, for although she spoke English well and fluently, she could not write it with ease. And looking at Sabrina’s face, and the faces of Aziza Begum and Zobeida, she was afraid, and the tears that she would not let Sabrina see fell and blotted the written words.
    â€˜Look after her,’ begged Sabrina of her grandfather. ‘If anything happens to me or to Marcos - if we are not here to care for her - I leave her to you. Dearest Grandpapa, look after her for me. I do not know how to write a will, but this letter is my will. If Marcos dies I leave everything to my daughter, and I leave my daughter to you.’
    When she had finished, the Begum and Zobeida lifted her, and with Juanita steadying her hand she signed her name to it. Juanita folded the paper and addressed it and put it away, and Sabrina smiled at her. It was as if a great weight had been lifted off her mind, and she closed her eyes and slept.
    At sundown Zobeida opened the shutters and sprinkled water on the stone