Chapter Ten

D+8

Henry

Henry blinked in the hazy morning light. He reached across the bed and his hand groped through the sheets. But Elizabeth's side of the bed was cold. He pushed himself up onto his elbow and rubbed his eyes. The bedside clock read 7:15 AM.

He padded down the stairs, yawning as he went. Voices drifted up from the kitchen. Elizabeth was sat on the stool at the end of the island, coffee cup in hand. Stevie thrust a bowl across the counter towards her, and Alison passed her a spoon, whilst Jason leant back against the sink, his arms folded across his chest. Elizabeth dragged the spoon over the mix of yoghurt and berries and oats, and her nose wrinkled.

Stevie raised her eyebrows at her mother. "Eat."

"I'm eating, I'm eating." Elizabeth shovelled the breakfast into her mouth, washing each bite down with another swig of coffee.

"And I think you should lay off the caffeine." Stevie pulled the mug out of Elizabeth's reach. "You're as bad as Russell."

"Dangerous move," Henry said as he stepped off the bottom of the stairs. The girls smiled up at him, whilst Jason sent him a casual nod. Elizabeth swivelled round. She caught his eye. There was the faintest glimmer there, and the corners of his lips tweaked into a smile, but within a blink it was gone. Henry took the mug from Stevie and placed it back on the counter in front of Elizabeth. "Never come between your mother and her coffee." He wanted to wrap his arm around her waist, to pull her close, to press a kiss to the exposed skin of her neck, just above the collar of her shirt. But he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder instead, and fought to silence the jolt of pain when she froze beneath his touch. He let his hand fall back to his side. "What time did you get up?"

"Six." Elizabeth swallowed a mouthful. "I've got to get going in exactly—" she glanced at her watch, the replica of her father's "—four minutes." She spooned the last dollop of yoghurt into her mouth and then pushed the bowl away. "There. Done." She hopped down from the stool. All three children watched her, their faces torn, but no one said anything.

"I'll walk you to the door." Henry placed his hand behind the small of her back, leaving a small pocket of air between them. They walked through the house to the entrance hall. Elizabeth grabbed her coat from the cupboard, and Henry took it from her, holding it up so that she could slip her arms inside and shrug it on. Elizabeth turned back to face him, her brow pinched into a light frown—a look of indecision. "If you need anything," Henry said, "just call."

She nodded, but didn't move towards the door.

He could grab her hand, tell her to stay. But there wasn't a surer way to make her leave, so he just smiled at her gently. "I'll see you this evening."

She nodded again, and this time, she left.

When Henry returned to the kitchen, the kids were carrying their own bowls of breakfast to the table. Henry grabbed a cup of coffee and joined them.

Alison looked up at him as he pulled out his chair. "Isn't it crazy that she's going back to work already?" Her eyes were wide, almost fearful. And in an instant she was a little girl again, appearing at the door of their room in the middle of the night, because every time her mother went away, she would suffer with nightmares.

Henry sat down. He sighed, and his whole body deflated. There was no point sugar-coating it. "Yes, it's completely crazy. But what happened is crazy, and if this is what she wants…all we can do is be here for her."

Stevie stared down into her bowl. She pushed the cereal around with her spoon. "I can't stop thinking what would have happened if Uncle Will hadn't been there."

Henry reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. "I know." His voice stuck in his throat. "Nor can I." That scenario had played non-stop in his mind since he stepped off the plane and saw those television screens. He let go of Stevie's hand and pressed his finger and thumb to his eyes, as if he could pinch back the tears that pricked in their corners.

"Dad?" Alison's voice was timid.

He held up one hand. He just needed a moment. He took a deep breath and let it out in a sharp burst. He looked up at his children. "I'm fine," he said, but then shook his head. No, that's what Elizabeth kept saying and it wasn't true. He tapped his fingers against the table, his gaze fixed on the back of his hand. "I love your mother very much. And what happened to her…it makes me sad and angry. And seeing her how she is now…" The distance between them expanding, and crushing him like nothing else. "…it hurts."

D+9

Elizabeth

The bedside clock ticked over. Each minute clunked by like a full hour. Elizabeth eased up to sitting and let her feet dangle over the edge of the bed. The cool air danced between her toes. She glanced over her shoulder. Henry was fast asleep, his brow creased with a slight frown, and he held a pillow in his arms. Her heart twinged. That was where she was meant to be. But if she did that…if she let him close…She shook her head before the spiral could start and whisk her away into its abyss. Best just to push those thoughts from her mind.

She picked up her phone from the bedside table and tiptoed to the door. She eased it open. Henry snored, and she stopped. He hugged the pillow tighter to his chest and then settled again. Elizabeth slipped through the gap and pulled the door to.

The house was silent, only the faint whir of engines filtered through the walls and windows from the motorcade outside. Elizabeth made her way into the study, sat down behind the desk, and pulled the binder towards her. She wetted her thumb and flicked through the pages to where she had left off. Two hundred and seventy six pages down, only three hundred and eighty four to go.

It was page three hundred and eleven when the stairs creaked. Her gaze shot up, and adrenaline pulsed through her veins until her body no longer felt her own. Two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen. She had found solace in numbers, understandable patterns, after her parents had been killed, and even though no one had died, they still brought her comfort now.

Henry appeared in the doorway, a blanket tucked under his arm. He stood there for a moment, in silence. If his eyes weren't open and staring down at her with their disbelief and fear, she might have thought he was sleepwalking. He held the blanket out to her. "It's cold. You should have this."

"I'm fine," Elizabeth said, and she looked back to the binder. "Just leave it on the chair."

He hesitated, then put the blanket down and hovered next to the desk. His gaze crawled over her, and she closed her eyes, willing him to go away, before he starting saying things, probing, unleashing demons that she wouldn't be able to cage again.

"Elizabeth?" His voice cracked.

And it felt like she might crack too. Like a sheet of ice breaking, and the dark waters beneath flowing out. She swallowed, urging those thoughts back down. "Go to bed, Henry."

His throat clunked, and for the longest time, he didn't move. Then—just as she thought he would say something else, to tear down the bars of the cage word by word—he turned and left. As soon as his footsteps had disappeared up the stairs, she grabbed the blanket and swathed herself in it like a cocoon. It would block the world out, it would keep the demons in, until they underwent their metamorphosis and became something beautiful.

D+10

Henry

The alarm went off after what could have been days, not hours. Henry was staring up at the ceiling, his mind filled with the fog of sleeplessness that weaved through thoughts of Elizabeth, who—presumably—was still working in their office.

Three different styles of music drifted from the children's bedrooms and amalgamated in a jarring symphony on the landing. Henry's head throbbed, and he massaged his forehead as he stumbled down the stairs.

He stopped on the bottom step. Elizabeth was curled up on the burgundy sofa, the blanket wrapped around her. The binder that she had been studying was open on the floor, her glasses resting on top. She looked so calm and cosy and content. In a way, she looked normal. His Elizabeth again. His heart thudded. He should just leave her to rest, let her get a few hours of much needed sleep, but if did and she was late to work, she would only get mad at him.

He pushed the binder aside with his foot, and then sat cross-legged in front of her. Her brow pinched slightly, and it emphasised the bruised circles beneath her eyes and the hollowness of her cheeks. Her frown deepened until her expression was pained. Her lips mumbled over the words: "Tell Henry…"

His heart beat faster. Was she dreaming about what happened, about the moments after the footage cut out? He moved onto his knees, and with the gentlest of touches, he stroked her hair back from her face. She nestled further down against the cushions, a groggy moan escaping her lips. Then her eyes flickered open. He pulled his hand away, like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar, but her own hand groped out from beneath the blanket and her fingers latched around his wrist. His pulse thrummed beneath her fingertips. She slid her fingers down until they were palm to palm, then she slipped her fingers through his. Her gaze locked on their intertwined hands, and she frowned. She looked like she was still dreaming—like when you dream about your everyday world, but something doesn't feel right, though you can't say quite what, but you just know that things aren't how they're meant to be, and you wait for the moment when you'll wake up.

"Elizabeth?" His voice was soft, but hoarse from lack of sleep.

Her gaze darted to his, and something in her eyes hardened, a layer of ice forming fractals over the ocean. She let go of his hand and propped herself up against the cushions. She twisted round, as though searching for her bearings. "What time is it?"

"Just gone seven," he said, and he sank back onto his heels.

She swung her legs over the edge of the couch and stood up. But perhaps too quickly, for she faltered and stumbled forwards against him. Henry caught hold of her legs, whilst her hands landed on his shoulders. It echoed the nights when a slightly tipsy Elizabeth had teetered into his arms; only this morning, it wasn't followed by a chortle. She drew back sharply, as if stung by his touch, and that in turn sent barbs through him. He let his arms drop to his sides, and she stepped over him, one hand rising to massage her forehead as she marched up the stairs.

"Elizabeth," he called after her. When were they going to talk? When were they going to deal with this thing that had happened to them; this thing that was tearing her apart, tearing them apart, tearing their life apart?

She paused for a second. Then, without facing him, she said, "I'm late." And she continued her ascent.

Henry sat down on the couch, his head in his hands. Why couldn't she see what she was doing?

When she returned—showered, dressed, make-up on—her heels tapped straight past him and towards the front door. Henry jumped to his feet and followed her. He leant against the wall, arms folded across her chest, as she wrestled her coat on. She shot him a look. "You're hovering."

You're hurting, you're fading, you're drowning. There were so many ways to rise to the bait. But instead, he said, "You're getting your stitches out today. Do you want me to meet you at your office, or at the hospital?"

Elizabeth turned towards the mirror and flattened out her collar. "You don't need to go." Then she patted the bags beneath her eyes with her fingertips, as if she could dab them into submission.

"I want to go," Henry said. He straightened up and stepped away from the wall, so that he was just a pace behind her. "I love you, Elizabeth, and I want to be there for you."

She caught his eye in the reflection. "Henry—" her voice had softened, almost into a plea. She closed her eyes and shook her head to herself. "Fine." She let out a huff of breath. "I'll see you there." She turned to face him, and for a moment his heart stopped—how many times had they stood here before and kissed each other goodbye? A promise that lingered, a silent oath that whatever happened they would see each other at the end of the day. And as her gaze fell to his lips, he felt sure she was thinking the same. For a second he thought maybe she would kiss him and take a step closer to letting him in. But instead her lips tugged into a sorry smile, and she left; the door closed behind her.

Elizabeth

Elizabeth's heels clacked down the hospital corridor, their rhythm matched by her pulse as it pounded through her ears. The air was stifling and suffused with that sterile smell, and it brought the metallic aftertaste of anaesthetic back to her mouth.

Her security stepped into the elevator first, and held the doors whilst she and Blake joined them. As the elevator lurched upwards, a cool sweat spread across her body. She tugged at her blouse, creating pockets of air to fan her skin.

"You okay, ma'am?"

Elizabeth jumped at Blake's voice, and her heart beat so hard and fast that it felt like some had taken a pneumatic drill to her ribcage. She shook her head to herself—seventeen, nineteen, twenty-three, twenty-nine—and took a deep breath. "I'm fine," she said through a smile that made her cheeks ache. "Just fine."

But Blake's brow was pinched, a perpetual kind of worry that, in the right light, reminded her of Alison. Perhaps the others too. There had been nothing but frowns since the incident.

The doors dinged and Elizabeth followed the agents out into the waiting room. Henry stood up from one of the sea-green vinyl seats. He nodded to the two security agents and then smiled at Blake. But when it came to her, he looked lost. His hands twitched at his sides, as though—without them resting against her waist—he didn't know what to do with them, and his shoulders were tense, as though unable to relax without her touch. He smiled at her, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Busy day?"

She shrugged off her coat and passed it to him. "Always." Then with a long sigh, she sank down into the chair next to his.

As they sat side by side, Henry's fingers drummed against the armrest. She watched them: tap-tap, tap-tap, tap. Before, they would have rested in her hand, or atop her knee, or against her thigh. They would have brought her warmth, as comforting as a log fire, or lit her body until she burned like the flames themselves. And if she reached out now, she could hold them, could welcome them, could let them guide her home…But that would only lead her to her destruction.

"Madam Secretary?" Elizabeth jolted out of her thoughts. Her pulse quickened, and her breath drew tight in her chest. A nurse was stood in front of her, wearing jade green scrubs and a smile that was a touch too wide. Her hand swept towards one of the side rooms. "If you'd like to come this way."

Elizabeth nodded and stood up. Her heart eased back into a smoother rhythm. Henry's hand retreated from the armrest and he rose slightly from his seat, but he stopped as she shot him a glance. "Stay here."

"How have the stitches been?" the nurse asked as Elizabeth removed her blouse and climbed up onto the bed. "Any problems at all?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "They're fine." Though in truth she hadn't looked at the stitches at all. Who in their right mind would want to look at them, to look at that tainted flesh? Every scar holds a story, but there were some stories that she would rather forget.

There was a television screen in the corner of the room, small like the one in the kitchen back on the horse farm. The sound was muted, but behind the news anchor flashed the image of her own face. It was an old picture, taken around the time Conrad was to announce her as his vice president—until plans changed.

The nurse followed her gaze, and her smile faded away. "Do you want me to turn that off?"

"No," Elizabeth said, "Can you turn the sound up?"

"Sure." The nurse darted across the room, and the volume blared for a second before returning to a more tolerable level. The nurse snapped on her gloves. "Right, I just need to examine the wounds, then if everything looks good, I can clip the threads and pull the stitches out. It shouldn't hurt, but it might tug a bit. Is that okay?"

"Fine." Elizabeth nodded, though she couldn't be sure what the nurse had said; the voices from the television drowned out the nurse and numbed Elizabeth to the room around her.

"After being shot just over a week ago, we understand that Secretary of State Elizabeth McCord has already returned to work. An official statement was released by the White House four days after the shooting that saw Secretary McCord take a bullet to the chest. However, the Secretary is still yet to make any public appearances and has declined all interviews with the media, leading to widespread rumours of instability and that she is planning to resign from her role."

The anchor turned to the panel. Though she was a woman, all three panelists were white, middle-aged, men. Elizabeth snorted to herself. Great diversity.

"What are your thoughts? Do we think that the Secretary will quit?"

"She was in critical condition," the man on the left began, "on life support no less, the fact that she survived at all defies all sense. I think this retreat from the spotlight might be a sign of things to come, a withdrawal from politics in general."

"Then why not just quit outright?" said the man in the middle. "Why go to the trouble of returning to work?"

"If she has in fact returned to work," the man on the left said. And he gave the others a sly look. He was probably one of the nutjobs who thought she had died and someone else had assumed her identity.

"Well, we've seen pictures of her being escorted into the State Department Building," the man in the middle said. "Or do you think that's all just a charade?"

"I think that President Dalton wants to project an image of stability." The man on the left held his hands out, as if laying a blueprint across the desk. "Let's put it this way—we've all seen the footage of the shooting. Do you really think she can be fit enough to return to work after that? If I was her, I'd be counting my blessings and be outta there."

"Maybe she's made of sterner stuff than you, Bob," the man on the right said to the man on the left. "After all, people say that she's the balls of the administration."

"Or maybe she's just got the administration gripped by the balls." The man on the left shook his head. "Nah, I'd wager good money that she'll quit within the month."

"I don't know," the man on the right said. "Her approval ratings are through the roof. I've even heard whispers that she might be planning to run for president."

"All done," the nurse said in a cheery voice. Elizabeth pulled her blouse back on and fastened the buttons hastily, before she could see what lay beneath. The nurse opened her mouth, but paused a moment before speaking. "For what it's worth, Madam Secretary, I really admire you, especially after what you've been through."

Elizabeth gave her a taut smile. "Thank you." Though why couldn't people just admire her work, rather than admire her for a thing that had happened? She stepped out into the waiting room. Henry and Blake were chatting to one another, both wearing those concerned frowns. If she had to guess, she would say that they were discussing her and what she had been through. That was all that anyone else wanted to talk about.

"Blake," Elizabeth said, a bark to her tone. Blake jumped from his seat, and Henry's gaze darted up. Elizabeth pointed to the television screen on the wall. "Have you seen this? I thought we were pushing back and bringing the focus back to our policies."

"We are trying to, ma'am. But—"

"Well, try harder." Elizabeth grabbed her coat from the chair next to Henry. He was still staring up at her, but she didn't return his gaze. "Surely we can give them something better to talk about. We've disrupted the news cycle enough times before."

"Ma'am…" Blake trailed off, but his mouth hung open. Elizabeth's gaze hardened on him, daring him to say whatever it was he had thought it best not to say. "This isn't just another news cycle, ma'am. It won't just go away."

"Find a way," Elizabeth said. And she turned and strode back towards the elevators.

"Ma'am." Blake hurried after her. "Maybe if you considered—"

Elizabeth stopped sharply and spun around, so sudden that Blake almost collided with her. "I'm not giving interviews. I'm not indulging their morbid desire to wallow in this…this incident." She threw one hand up. Her heart thundered in her chest. "Have I made myself clear?"

Blake's shoulders dropped, as if his whole body were deflating. He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

That evening, Henry's gaze followed Elizabeth as she walked across their room and searched through the chest of drawers for a clean pair of pyjamas. It raked over her skin, leaving her nerves on edge, until it felt as though at any minute something inside her might snap.

He set his book down on the bedside table, the pages wedged open, and leant back against the headboard. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Elizabeth said, and she shoved the drawer shut.

"Elizabeth." God, that tone grated on her.

"I said I'm fine."

"I heard what you said." He shook his head ever so slightly, as if in disbelief. "I also heard you shout at Blake today." That hit her like a slap to the face. "I'm trying my best to be patient…I'm trying to understand. But I need you to talk to me." Every word was a prod, loosening the topsoil and exposing the raw earth beneath.

She swallowed, her gaze falling to the pyjamas in her hands. "I'm fine, Henry. There's nothing for us to talk about."

She retreated to the bathroom and locked the door. And as the bolt slid into the frame, it felt—for a second—as though she could block everything and everyone out, and then all this darkness would go away.