Sarah tricotait paisiblement en compagnie d’Annette, d’Ida et de quelques autres, venues inaugurer le nouveau café-tricot de la boutique de laines.

 

Les participantes avaient échangé leurs prénoms et s’étaient montré dit leurs ouvrages, qui allait de l'écharpe en entrelacs à la veste en point fantaisie, sans oublier la débutante, dans le coin gauche, qui tricotait au point mousse un étui de téléphone portable.

 

A présent, elles parlaient entre elles, à voix basse, de différentes techniques. Interrogée par Léa, une débutante, une tricoteuse chevronnée du nom de Delphine s'écria "Ah non, jamais de Magic Loop ! Le Magic Loop, c'est l'Antéchrist." Quelques-unes éclatèrent de rire et d'autres prirent la défense de la technique honnie. La débutante, un peu perdue, regarda bien toutes celles qui professaient aimer le Magic Loop et demanda sur-le-champ à ce qu’on le lui enseigne. Une bonne âme lui montra comment faire et elle s'appliqua à faire un bonnet, les yeux rivés sur les évolutions de la longue aiguille flexible.

 

La porte s’ouvrit. Sarah eut une exclamation de surprise en voyant Salomé, sa fille, l'air embarrassé, précédée d'un garçon de son âge.

 

« Maman, je te présente Paul, il est avec moi en cours d’italien. »

« Bonjour madame", lui dit Paul avec un grand sourire. "Alors, vous tricotez ? C'est de la balle, j'aimerais bien apprendre."

 

Un grand silence se fit.

 

Sarah finit par dire « Bien sûr, si vous voulez, je vous apprendrai. » Salomé se renfrogna un peu et l’ensemble des participantes au café-tricot regarda le jeune homme s’asseoir auprès d’elle avec des yeux ronds et un sourire narquois.

 

« Il paraît que les hommes se remettent au tricot"

« Oui, j’ai vu le sondage »

« En tous cas, il n'y a pas de honte à se mettre au tricot quand on est un garçon, jeune homme. Les premiers tricoteurs étaient des marins arabes !"

« Ce n’est pas vrai » déclara tranquillement Annette. « Les femmes ont été les premières à tricoter, et cela remonte à l'antiquité grecque. Je le sais, j'étais là !"

Ida lui envoya un grand coup de coude.

 

 

Episode 1

 

 

This is how it goes: you’re always asking for something new to catch your interest, you unwittingly tread off the common path, you rediscover forgotten pleasures, yesterday’s bondage becomes today’s leisure, and suddenly, seamlessly, you're hooked :  you’ve started knitting.

 

Sarah Berleau had not been taught to knit by her mother and she did not take her inspiration from her crafty, crocheting grandmother. Chance made her do it, after a random evening out in a club, organised by a big brand showing off its yarn. Guests made spider webs out of silky, variegated yarns in the dim lights, while a small group sitting in a corner moved their fingers with surprising swiftness, creating long garter stitch scarves. As she left, she bought some purple yarn, bamboo needles - a sustainable material, the hostess told her, beaming - and a small leaflet of instructions.

 

She had difficulty taking to it, letting several stitches drop off her needles and damaging her yarn, but after a few days, her hands were producing regular stitches and, repeating the same, small moves, she found it welcomingly soothing. An unexpected benefit: she stopped smoking, it being impossible to indulge in knitting and hold a cigarette, unless she were three-handed. Hence, her budget for cigarettes became her budget for yarn, she spent the money on black silk hanks, beige wool, several pairs of needles, bamboo always, a soft, warm material, and environment-friendly to boot. Sarah Berleau, a new knitter, like so many other women, fell head over heels for the making of sweaters.

 

Her husband Martin as well as her daughter Salome considered all this with good humor. They had got used to seeing her come back from her twice-monthly stash enrichment expedition at her favourite local yarn store with a full shopping bag. They’d gather round the table while she exhibited her purchases and explained to them profusely why her new yarn was sooo yummy.

 

This Saturday afternoon, they were looking at her new dark red cotton balls, bought for a top-down short-sleeved raglan sweater pattern, while she was putting her bag away - but she felt that something was still inside.

‘But this is all I bought’, she wondered.

 

She extracted slowly a pink mohair skein. Candy pink. She did not go for bright colors, and definitely not for mohair: hairy, fluffy, unflattering, leaving more traces of its presence than a dog.

‘What is this…’ she muttered.

 

Her husband and her daughter were laughing already.

‘Now you buy mohair in secret! We knew it! Too much knitting: you’re becoming an old lady!’

‘I didn’t buy that…’

‘It doesn’t matter, mom, we love you all the same…’

‘No, really, it’s a mistake. I have to take this thing back to the shop.’

 

But the shop was closed. The offending skein would have to be in their home all the week-end. Sarah hid it away from her view and surrounded herself with her beloved yarns of muted colors, patiently knitting a scarf for her daughter.

 

They did not go out that night and went to bed before midnight. When they were all deeply asleep, the pink mohair skein twitched. It put slowly forward an inquisitive end, like an antenna, reading the minds of the inhabitants of her new home. She found the very young girl's mind: she was dreaming, in her classy bedroom, deprived of even a small boys’ band poster, that she met Fellini and that they talked about his evolution from neo-realism to a more surrealist and original visual language.

 

The skein, or should we say the demon that haunted it, decided to act. It assumed its true shape: a tall, curly, siliconed, collagened and hyaluronic acid-filled blonde, dressed in a purple and pink mini-dress. It entered Salome’s dream, obscured Fellini and opened its mouth.

- Hi, it said with a smooth voice. My name’s Barbara and I want to be your friend.

 

 

Episode 2

 

‘ You’re a bit feverish. ’

     A flushed Salome, sprawled in her bed, looked at her mother with half-closed, confused eyes.

‘ How do you feel? Do you want me to call a doctor?”

‘ No mom, I’ll just get some rest today and I might be OK again tomorrow.”

     Sarah, worried, looked at her daughter who was so reasonable, so un-fussy, so grown-up already. Salome had always been a serious girl, perhaps a little severe, always trying to hold her own in adult discussions and knowing everything, except that grown-ups were not that perfect.

‘ I’ll get you some paracetamol ’, she whispered, stroking her hair. She left the room, thinking that the turn of season was a harsh one this year.

     Once the door was closed, Salome lifted her blanket and gazed at the skein. She had got out of bed at six to go and get it in secret, barefoot on the cool wooden floor. Dawn’s grey was barely taking over the night. The skein was waiting for her. In the dark, it looked white, and it was soft and mysteriously warm.

     Barbara had had a long talk with her and they were the best of friends. When she had showed up in her dream, Salome had noticed that Fellini, before he vanished, had given the blonde girl one of these manly glances she did not like very much, since she found they blocked discussion. She had accepted to be her friend to try at once to prove to this creature the inanity of her aesthetic choices and the vacuity of all the time she must be spending to prepare herself every day, notwithstanding that you can't help noticing how plastic surgery makes its victims look like fish.

‘ I’d call you grouper face if you weren’t my friend, your skin has been so stretched’ she told her gently.

     But at this moment, Barbara had given her a wrinkle-free smile and opened her hand. Glittering powder had flown from it and danced in front of Salome's eyes. Since then, it all had seemed simpler, lighter… cuter.

‘ Why do you bad-mouth me? Aren’t I pretty the way I am? ’

“You are…”

‘ Don’t you like pink?”

“I only like reasonable colours, like my mom does.”

‘ Just look at me: don’t you think mauve and pink set off my complexion? ’

‘ You look gorgeous... ’

     And so they went on all night, until Barbara confided to her that she came from the pink mohair skein, who felt quite cold, far from the yarn basket, and who would have liked to be in a nice warm bed. Salome understood perfectly and thought it quite natural to get up and bring it back in her room.

     So, since that day had begun, Salome, under the sheets, was stroking the skein and marvelling at its glow, its hair that seemed to catch the light, its softness. She felt that the skein was emitting a gentle vibration that could almost have been a purr. She felt like staying here, just like that, all day, and had no difficulty lying to her mother (which she never did before, at least not very often). She closed her eyes and went to sleep again. Barbara, a smile on her face, came to her. Feeling a surge of admiration, she uttered the words the devil expected:

‘I’d like to be like you…’

 

 

 

Episode 3

    

     Sarah, sitting in a crowded underground wagon, was double-knitting a very simple black-and-white striped scarf. She was focusing on the softness of the yarn and looked around from time to time, taking in her fellow travellers and particularly their knit items, which she mentally analysed. ‘ I could have done it cheaper, with a better yarn, and quickly, too” she sometimes thought about some particularly simple scarf or cardigan. ‘ To buy something that easy to do in a shop…” She felt some stares and remained stiffly indifferent. When she heard a little girl say: ‘ Mom, what’s the lady doing? ’, she raised her head and gave the mother and the daughter a stern look.

     Things were not going well with Salome right now. The serious, sober and intelligent little girl that never had tantrums was turning into a brainless teenager who loved candy pink and kittens. Their first clash dated back to the day after she had been sick. She had come home with a pink, sequinned accessory, sporting a few mauve wisps in her hair, and when her mother had asked her about her homework, she had taken a horrible thing out of her bag: a brand new diary filled with pictures of kittens.

“What is this ?”

“My new diary. Isn’t it cute ? ’

“Salomé, you know this is horrible. You know that girls who have a kitten diary are futile girls with very bad taste. Put that away.”

‘ You say you like cats all the time!”

“Adult cats. Nothing to do with kittens.”

‘ Cats do have to be kittens at one point, don’t they ? ’

     Salome had never talked back like this. Sarah hesitated.

“Yes. But they don’t have to go to a studio to get photographed, with a filter on the camera. ’

‘ How do you know there’s a filter? ’

‘ It’s plain to see. Put that away now. Where is the black diary we had bought together? ’

“I don’t want it anymore. It’s ugly.”

“What?”

“I just don’t want it anymore. And I’m not putting away my new diary, which I bought with my money. If you take it like this I’ll go and put myself away in my room! ’

‘ What are you talking about?  Salome!”

     Salome had slammed the door.

     Yes, their relationship was degrading. She spent all of her time in her room, consented to see her parents only for meals, and was slowly transforming into a nightmarish Barbie doll. Sarah even thought she was putting on makeup secretly.

     Her husband, Martin, had advised her to be patient and tolerant: ‘ She’s going through her teenage crisis... it was bound to happen… of course, we won’t let her do anything, but this is just about her clothes… let’s leave her this space where she can find herself.” Martin, who was a psychoanalyst, was currently using the word ‘space’ every time he could. Sarah felt excluded as she guessed that, once more, Martin was defending his daughter against her.

     At the next station, a woman sat opposite her and swiftly took a work-in-progress from her bag. Sarah gave a quick look: the woman was knitting mohair. For this reason, Sarah did not give her a smile.

     She had forgotten about the pink mohair skein, as surprising as it might seem, since she was very organised. At first, she had vaguely looked for it around the place where she put her yarns. A few days later, she had lazily searched behind the sofa. Her husband and her daughter had not seen it. She felt a bit guilty because of the yarn shop woman: a mohair skein was expensive… but something prevented her from thinking about it too long.

‘ Oh, we’re both knitting! ’ the woman opposite her said.

Sarah gave her a smile, muttered ‘ Yes, yes ’ and resumed her work on her scarf, which was much classier than every scarf in the wagon.

“It’s pleasant to knit, whenever there’s free time. Always, always keep your hands busy!” The woman went on.

Sarah gave her a more attentive look. When she smiled, as she just did, one could see that her face was almost entirely wrinkled. No doubt that she was a knitter of the old generation, one of these poor domestic slaves who were forced to knit to dress all the members of their family. Whereas the new generation mostly knitted for themselves, thereby freeing themselves from the dictatorship of fashion.

‘ I love this colour ’ the woman said, showing her red WIP. “It’s called Hermes red. Do you know who Hermes was? ’

‘ Of course ’ Sarah replied instantly, upset that the woman might think she lacked culture. ‘ In Greek mythology, Hermes was the messenger of the gods.”

‘ He used to carry important messages to humans, too’ her neighbour replied, flashing her one last smile before she remained silent for the rest of her fare.

                   *    *    *

     Once his last patient for the morning had left, Martin started wandering in his apartment ‘as much as he could, since the rooms were rather small). He felt euphoric, elated, and did not know why. It was not because his patients were progressing: on the contrary, they all were in various stages of denial, mutism and vague whining. In spite of the cold and damp weather, his soul was filled with warmth. His footsteps went towards his daughter’s bedroom. She had recently posted her name on it, written in big pink italic letters over a golden, sequinned background. He, a man who always respected his child’s private life, opened the door.

     He did not read her new private diary, whose brand new lock had broken the second time she used it, he did not look for cinema tickets or even love letters. He walked towards the cupboard, held out his hand, took what he was looking for.

     He came back to his empty office and laid on one of the ranges of his library, where he could see it, the skein. He sat down comfortably. He looked at the skein’s soft gleam and opened his mouth.

‘ Let me tell you. I am a reasonable man, I am a settled man. I think I am a sunny man… ’

 

Episode 4

 

‘When she deigns talking to me, she’s pulling a face...’

‘And the way she dresses... Sometimes I put my foot down, but you can never be sure, she might be changing her clothes in the school bathrooms like I did at her age!'

‘And that music she listens to…’

Sarah, Paule, Catherine and Ludmila, four colleagues, were talking about their teenage daughters before getting to work: they all put on a disgusted air, from the mother of a staunch girls' bands fan to the mother of a gothic kid.

‘That must be so hard for you,’ Annie, a woman looking so blissful it was suspicious, chimed in. ‘I’m so glad I don’t have these problems with my elder. She's going to university next year, at only sixteen, just like her mother.’

‘Her son is on drugs’ Paule whispered in Sarah’s ear. Sarah suppressed her smile. ‘He smokes weed and he's only twelve.'

‘What kills me is that my little Salome used to have personality, she was unique, my own little girl’ Sarah said. ‘Now she looks like everybody.’

The others looked at her with compassion.

‘And don’t you ever feel that your daughter’s turning into, like... plastic?’

She was suddenly stared at.

*    *    *

This afternoon, Salome came home with cold sweat. She had to end this once and for all. She rushed into her room and had to lean on the door frame. The skein had disappeared. She closed her eyes, scared, panicking.

‘I’m so much smarter than you are. Who do you think you are? You can’t escape from me so easily.’

Barbara was sneering at her. She had to be strong and get rid of her. At the beginning, following her directions was like a game and she did have fun with her new friends who wore very colourful clothes and spoke very loudly. Sometimes, she felt out of place, unfaithful to herself, for instance when she laughed at her former friends before those two weeks, or when they were talking about cute blokes (but the embarrassment  she felt might not be entirely due to Barbara’s influence). Sometimes, instead of going to beauty shops for a whole afternoon, she'd feel like reading books, or going to the cinema to see arthouse movies. There must be some boys who liked arthouse movies. Weren’t there? Anyway, Barbara could not be always right when she told her what to do to attract them. And since a few days, she felt strange, as if she were… dead inside. She did not recognise her own skin and she felt that she was sporting, without using self-tan, an orange glow. She was emptying herself out – she used to have so many dreams, desires, projects… suddenly she pictured herself dead at thirteen and screamed.

*    *    *

At this moment, Martin, who was having a session with a patient having unusual fits of laughter, jumped off his seat when he heard his daughter. He apologised briefly to his patient and went to see Salome.

‘Darling, what’s wrong?’

When she saw him, Salome screamed again. He had changed into bright red smooth velvet pants and a pink mohair sweater. So Barbara, trying to protect herself, had taken possession of his soul too… how could they get out of this situation?

‘Dad, you have to allow me some personal space’ she said, sobbing.

Martin, vanquished, blurted: ‘I’ll see you again after my session’ and went back to his patient. As soon as he came in his office, his patient started laughing and Martin suddenly understood why.

‘Oh, stop it’, he said, unnerved. ‘I can dress the way I want, I am in a good mood and pink is always flattering for any complexion. At least, I’m not suffering from obsessive conformism preventing me from fulfilling my desires, even though it wouldn't be that complicated to try and stop worrying about what people think of me for a while.’

Which shut the patient’s trap.

*    *    *

That night, as she was going home, Sarah did not know that she was going to find her house in a state of chaos. She was merely concentrating on her knitting, her nice black-and-white scarf, one knit, one purl and pass the yarn, her small time for herself, her small moment of quiet, her own bubble in the underground. She could not help noticing, opposite her, a woman wearing a red mohair shawl. She raised her eyes and found herself facing her morning co-traveller.

‘You can’t have completed it today? You only had the tail of that shawl on your needles this morning…’

‘Work that's begun in the morning is ended in the evening, the other one never stops, gotta keep up with her' the woman replied amicably.

Sarah feared suddenly that this woman was a lunatic living, say, with her twin sister in a derelict house where they both did knitting swiftness contests after a life of unpaid labour dressing their whole family with their own little fingers. Things were really bad before feminism.

‘I’m not a slave’, the woman said, as if she had read in her thoughts. ‘I’m your only chance!’

 

 

Episode 5

 

 

She could feel the ground vibrating to the deafening music. She didn’t know how she had wound up in this party, under a summer sky, with all those happy people dressed with sequins. But she was both happy and sad. Someone took her by the hand and pulled her, against her will, to the centre of the dancefloor.

     At that moment, a group of dancers started to perform a choreography that she had to follow.

*    *    *

     Sarah was coming home briskly. After what the madwoman with the shawl had told her, she had stood up and walked towards the wagon door, shoving two or three people in the process, and she had to wait to get out, during two painful minutes, stuck between a lady with a rock-hard belief that perfume should be put on every hour and a gentleman who lived by healthy, organic principles: no deodorant, lots of physical exercise in a stout work day. Someone had filled in her seat immediately, a guy who had stared at the madwoman until she told him: 'It's amazing how people's eyes in the metro reminds me of oxen.' When he had plunged back in his sci-fi novel, she had gone on with a dreamy voice: ‘Although my favourite ox, which I had called James, had those sharp and, at the same time, soft eyes.’

     So Sarah was coming home and she felt aggravated. She was glad that Martin would be here… since Salome, in all probability, would be locked in her room, singing loudly and out of key over those terrible new songs she loved.

     When she opened the door, a man in red and hairy pink shouted at her: ‘Darling!’ It took her a while to recognize the man she had married.

‘What are you doing dressed like this?’ She blurted.

‘It’s Salome! Come and see her! I’ve already called the doctor!’

     Sarah followed Martin, who looked dark and stern, in spite of his complexion, lit by his pink mohair sweater. Martin opened the door for her and showed her her darling daughter, lying on the bed.

     Her eyes were closed, her breathing was faint. Fine beads of sweat shone on her skin. Her orange, thickened skin, her plastic skin.

 

Episode 6

 

 

Sarah was doing the cleaning.

Her daughter was going through endless tests at the hospital, yet nothing was found to explain her condition. She seemed to be sleeping, in a state of REM sleep. Her brain activity demonstrated that she was dreaming.

So Sarah had taken a few days off and was presently cleaning the whole place from the floor to the ceiling, just to avoid thinking too much. She and Martin stayed by Salomé constantly, taking turns. She had come home with that idea of cleaning for a few hours, before coming back to the hospital.

She had gloves on, her back started to ache and she felt like sneezing because of chemicals; she realised she had not done Martin's office yet.

She rarely went into that room.

When she opened the door she noticed that something had changed. It felt a bit like a smell, but it wasn’t, it just was… an atmosphere.

The room’s quiet, understated and welcoming atmosphere had become more exuberant, with a hint of aggressiveness. Yet nothing had changed in the furniture.

Puzzled, she scanned the room and saw the skein on one of the bookshelves. She took it with a cry of surprise. How had it found its way there? She squeezed it in her hands, ignoring that unpleasant feeling of having received an electric shock, what with those fuzzy yarns, probably sheared from the back of a filthy goat, you should be prepared for everything, and she got ready to bring it back to the shop. Here was a welcome distraction, perhaps even better than cleaning.

*    *    *

Meanwhile, Salome dreamt that she was dancing. It was all very tiring, but every time she thought about leaving the party, something new caught her attention, stroboscopes, music, beautiful boys eyeing her…  She recognised a familiar silhouette at the bar.

*    *    *

At the top of the street, the small yarn store was already lit. The owner was knitting peacefully a pair of lace mittens. When Sarah came in, she looked at her closely. Grey complexion, worried look. Something must have not gone according to plan.

‘I’ve come to bring you back this skein’ Sarah said. ‘You put it in my bag by mistake about three weeks ago.’

‘It wasn’t a mistake’ the owner replied, ‘it was a discovery offer.’

Sarah stared at her.

‘I like to make pretty surprises to my faithful clients,’ the owner explained, ‘small things to make them forget their habits for a while, make them discover a new universe… for instance, I converted one of my fine hook experts to knitting with bulky yarns, now she won't do anything but Aran… I immediately thought you needed some pink.’

Feeling a bit uneasy, Sarah replied nothing.

‘But because I like you, I’ve made you a special gift…’ she leaned towards Sarah. ‘This skein is magical!’

‘What?’

‘I’m not just saying that because it's very cute,' said the owner, stroking the skein, which twitched slightly as a response. ‘I’m saying it because all our mohair skeins are bewitched when they’re spun.’ These are the advantages of hand-spinning. In order to seal the spell, the skein is then dyed in a very precise colour. Pink will bring you elation, a desire to attract and lightness. You did notice that your family is more fanciful, didn't you?' That last question was asked without much confidence. Usually, the spell always worked.

‘Look, everything’s gone wrong now.’ Sarah told her. My daughter has changed a lot these last days, she’s become more… fanciful, as you say, but not in a good way… she’s moved away from us and now she’s been sleeping for three days and no one knows what’s wrong with her and her skin looks like plastic…’

The owner looked panicked.

‘Like plastic? And she’s in coma?’

‘No… she’s been sleeping and dreaming. Since three days.’

The owner felt guilty. How could things go so wrong? Did…

She called someone in the rear shop.

‘Ida! Come, please! She’s back!’

The rear shop door opened. The woman with the red shawl entered.

‘Haven't I told you long enough, Annette.' She simply said. ‘Come with me, madam, there’s time yet.’

 

Episode 7

 

 

Annette had closed her shop. She now sat, looking as contrite as a scolded child, between Ida and Sarah, in the rear-shop. On the table, under the light, the pink skein glowed with false innocence.

Ida extended her hand towards Annette. She gave her a pair of antique-looking crocheted gloves. Ida put them on and, very quickly, squeezed the skein as hard as she could. They heard an aggressive growl. Ida opened her hand as if it were burnt. A stupefied Sarah watched the skein fall back on the table.

‘There can’t be any more doubt. See, Annette.’

‘I’d have never thought she could do something like this’ Annette blurted.

‘That is because you are much too nice. One would think you were born yesterday, sometimes you’re just like a baby smiling at people thinking they’re all as nice as daddy and mummy. And you see what happened?’

‘But she’s our sister!’

Sarah was startled.

‘What! What is all this about?’

Annette gave Ida a quick look. Ida had leaned back in her chair.

‘First, we have to tell you who we are. Do you know about the Moirae?’

‘Yes. And?’

‘In Greek mythology (Ida winced when she had to say that word), the Moirae are three women. Three sisters holding human destinies in their hands. The first one spins, and each thread is a human life, the second one measures the thread, and the third one...'

‘The third one cuts the thread and they die. So?’

‘So… it’s not only a legend.’

Sarah did not understand and stared at her.

‘The three Moirae have actually existed and they still exist. Gods are immortal… even when they aren't worshipped anymore. They just get by, and pretend they’re humans.’

‘Zeus is a CEO now’ Annette said amicably.

‘And Hermes deals in Internet access offers’ Ida added. ‘Athena’s in politics. Yes, we’ve all… found an occupation.’

‘Even Hera’ Annette grumbled.

Ida ignored her deliberately, since Hera, who had guides to good manners published under her name, when really they were written by her ‘assistant’, sort of put the whole pantheon to shame.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘we are the three Moirae. We don’t preside over men’s destinies anymore, of course, but we can... give our two cents. As you’ve seen with this skein, which, unfortunately, did not have the expected effect.’

‘I am the spinner, the youngest of the three’ Annette said.

‘I am the measurer, the middle sister, but undoubtedly the more mature’ Ida said.

What about the elder…?’

‘The elder is in there’ Ida said angrily, showing the skein. ‘Our elder sister was very upset about losing her power over men’s fates. So, at first, she only did small deeds, she used to stifle animals, then we put a spell on her so that all animals would run away when she came near them, and then she went back to human beings.’

‘She’d perform little experiments over them, sometimes only to make them sick. She particularly liked to see them lose their vitality.’

‘She played at turning people into vegetables…’

‘She played at puncturing holes in their brain...'

‘Before that, she’d played at having buboes covering their whole bodies...’

‘And her latest find was to turn people into plastic. First, their skin would change, then, they’d fall asleep, then they’d fall into a coma, and finally...’

Sarah did not want to hear the rest.

‘How long does my daughter have...?’

Annette and Ida looked at each other. Annette finally forced herself to whisper:

‘A few hours...’