Chapter three of the story.
“If we’re going, let’s go now,” he said and took her hand firmly in his.
She cast a last look in the direction of the window, at the silvery light that fell on the parquet, so cool and placid.
From the nursery came the sound of a child wailing. The child was his, not hers. But did that make a difference? She screwed her eyes tight shut, squeezing out tears of pain and rage.
“They won’t hurt him,” he said gently. “Not even they would hurt a child.”
She looked into his eyes and saw that he believed what he had just said no more than she did.
“If we leave him,” he said, the tremor in his voice betraying his emotion, “he has a chance at least. If we drag him with us through the countryside in this cold, he’ll die.” The words echoed her own, hollow and bloodless. But he was right. Baby Edvard was consumptive. He would probably not see his second birthday anyway.
Acquiescing silently, she buried her face in the fur collar of her coat. She still heard the crying.