Chapter Thirty-five
I was curled in the chair when the air-raid siren started its wail. There was no warning, and almost no warm-up—it went from silent to deafening in a matter of seconds.
“Oh God, oh God,” I said, jumping to my feet and looking wildly around. Meg’s siren suit was stashed under the chair. I grabbed it, then stood helplessly at the foot of her bed. I had no idea how to wrestle her into it. Angus and Conall showed up seconds later, before I had a chance to try.
“Put that on yourself,” said Angus, when he turned the flashlight on me and saw what I was holding. “And grab the gas masks.”
“The two of you go,” Meg cried. “I can’t make it.”
“The hell you can’t,” said Angus. He thrust the flashlight at me, then scooped Meg up along with all her bedclothes and carried her away.
I pulled on Meg’s siren suit, grabbed our gas masks, and clumped downstairs.
A hazy bit of moonlight revealed the shelter’s squat outline, and I ran ahead, holding the flap back while Angus climbed in with Meg. Then Conall slunk in, and I followed, letting the flap fall shut behind me.
I turned the flashlight on and leaned it up against the wall. Angus, stooping because the ceiling was so low, made his way to the bunks at the back and laid Meg on the bottom one. She turned on her side, writhing.
“Give me her gas mask,” he said, crouching beside her. “And get yours on as well.”
He slipped Meg’s over her battered face. She whimpered and curled up even tighter.
Angus reached beneath the bunk and pulled out a roll of brown canvas that was labeled FIELD FIRST AID. He unfurled it, revealing a variety of surgical instruments and containers strapped to the interior. A moment later, he was injecting something into Meg’s arm.
“What was that?” I asked, kneeling beside him. “Was that morphine?”
“Aye, a Syrette. A preloaded syringe. I jostled her something fierce getting her in here, and I see no reason she shouldn’t sleep through this.” He glanced back at me. “I said get your mask on.”
I was struggling with the straps when Angus twisted on his heels and did something to the back of my head. I reached up to investigate. He’d secured the place where the straps converged with a safety pin.
Several aircraft screamed overhead, one after another. I shrieked and covered my head. Angus threw his arms around me and I clutched him in a death grip, turning my face and digging the canister of my gas mask into his shoulder.
“Those are Spitfires—just Spitfires. There’s nothing to fear,” he said. “Let’s get you up top. I’ve still got to get my gun.”
I gripped the edge of the upper bunk and he gave me a leg up, as if helping me mount a horse. I struggled to find my way under the covers, but the gas mask made it nearly impossible to tell what I was doing.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, ducking away. I cried out, even tried to grab him, but a moment later he was gone. As even more aircraft zoomed overhead, I burst into tears, blubbering inside my gas mask.
The gun must have been in the dugout, because he was back almost immediately.
“It’s all right,” he said, crouching by the flap. “It’s just more Spitfires.”
The siren was relentless, rising and falling, rising and falling, and after a few hours I grew numb to it, lulled into a stupor.
I lay on my side, watching Angus the entire time. He kept his head slightly down, listening carefully. Each time a plane roared overhead, he shouted over to me, telling me what it was. I didn’t know the difference between a Lockheed Lightning and a Bristol Blenheim, but decided that if Angus wasn’t outside shooting at it, it probably wasn’t going to drop a bomb on us. I grew so inured to the siren’s wail I was startled when it finally went steady, shrieking solidly at its highest note.
When it tapered off and fell silent, Angus set his gun down.
“That’s that, I guess,” he said, climbing to his feet.
He made his way toward the back of the shelter and dropped out of sight to check on Meg. A few seconds later, he reappeared, folding his forearms on the edge of the bunk and resting his chin on them. His face was right in front of the clear plastic window of my mask, and I realized he’d never put his on. He hadn’t even brought it out. His arms had been full.
“You all right then?” he asked.
I started to kick my way free of the covers.
“Stay put,” he said. “Meg’s asleep.”
“We’re spending the night out here?” I asked, my voice muffled by rubber.
“Aye, what’s left of it. It will be easier to navigate by the light of day, and I don’t want to manhandle her again.” He tapped the window of my mask. “You can take that off, you know.”
When I removed it, he took it from me and leaned over to put it back in its ridiculous red case.
“Are you warm enough up there?” he asked.
“Yes, but where will you sleep?”
“I’ll nip inside and get a quilt.”
“Why don’t you take the top bunk, and I’ll move down with Meg?”
“No. She’s curled up, and it would take some doing to rearrange her. We’ll stay as we are.”
“There’s enough room up here for both of us,” I said.
He popped back up. Our eyes met, and this time there was no separation at all, no plastic windows, green canisters, black rubber, or anything else that might have disguised my words. I had no idea how they’d come out of my mouth.
He smiled, and the skin beside his eyes crinkled.
“I’m sorry,” I said, aware that my cheeks were blazing.
He held two fingers to my lips, then slid his hand around until he was cupping my cheek.
I gasped and turned into his hand, pressing my face against it and closing my eyes. When I opened them again, he was staring right through me. His eyes were as penetrating and startling as the first time I’d seen him.
“Hush, m’eudail,” he said. “Everything’s all right.”
He pulled his hand free.
“Where are you going?” I cried.
“Back in a jiffy,” he said, slipping out of the shelter.
He’d left the flashlight on. Conall was sitting by the entrance, his head bowed like a gargoyle.
Angus returned with a quilt, which he wrapped around himself. He crouched against the wall by the entrance and turned off the light.
“Good night, m’eudail.”
I reached up and traced the area of my face where he’d touched me.