We strolled up and down the promenade afterward, in and out of booths. We ate until we felt like we would explode. We rode a Ferris wheel (have you ever been on one?) until I wanted to vomit. And then, it was time to go home. My curfew was one, so we had to leave before the midnight finale.
We dragged our feet all the way back to the station, then caught the first train out feeling both giddy and dejected at the same time. The cars were almost empty, and we were feeling sorry for ourselves despite the fantastic evening, when suddenly there was a ruckus at the back of the car, people pointing and whooping. We followed their gazes out the windows to the sky above London, where bright fireworks had just begun to unfurl themselves. We had one of the best views in the house.
“They’re to commemorate the fallen,” someone said, and everyone took off their hats.
LATER—
I just took a break, but I’m back. I’ll get to it now, the part that I don’t want to write.
The trains were so much faster coming than going that James and I got back to Forest Row with plenty of time to spare. It was a beautiful night and we were both wide awake, so I decided I’d walk him home along my way.
We stomped into the woods laughing and talking about everything we’d seen. It was a bright night even under the trees, and we barely had to watch where we were going.
Once we got to the cottage, James told me to wait for a second while he ran behind the house to get the lamp for me to take (I knew I didn’t need it, but he insisted). I sat inside the room waiting for him, on the edge of his bedroll on the floor. He must have had a hard time finding the lamp, because I waited for a long while, and finally I noticed his rucksack was slightly open, and that a small frame was poking its way out the top. The photo of his fiancée.
I pulled it out to get another look at her. She was just as pretty as I remembered from seeing it the first time—dark-black hair, dark-brown eyes. The inscription on the bottom said: For my one and only James.
As I reached to stuff it back into his bag, my hands brushed something wispy and soft, and since I couldn’t imagine what it might be, I opened the bag a little wider to see. It was a feather—bundled together with several other treasured things—leaves and such—and bound to some folded papers by a piece of string. I knew I should put it all away, but I thought maybe I could discover who his real family might be. My heart spiked, and I slid the papers out of the string and opened them, glancing quickly at the door. I could still hear James tromping around on the dead leaves behind the cottage.
The bottom page was a wrinkled discharge paper from the hospital six months before, describing his injuries and where they were sustained, which didn’t make sense: by a fallen bomb at Warrington Crescent in London.
The second paper was a correspondence from the Department of War, dated a few months before that, a warning that if he did not arrive at the conscription office within the week, it would be considered desertion and prosecuted as such.
And then, on top, was a third piece of paper—a letter.
James,
I apologize for not responding to any of your letters. You’ll have heard the news by now that I was married on December 10. I am very happy. It would be inappropriate for us to continue corresponding. Please respect my wishes.
Love, Marie
I was sitting there with the letters spread open in my hands when James finally walked in, but I didn’t rush to hide them. He stood still in the doorway when he saw me.
“You weren’t in the war?” I said.
He seemed to droop a little, leaning into the doorway. “No.”
I took a breath, my thoughts moving fast. “You’re hiding here because you don’t want to go to jail?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a coward, then?”
He opened his mouth to say something and then stopped and didn’t say anything.
“Teddy’s dead,” I said flatly, “because he did the right thing. And you’re not, because you didn’t.” I was squeezing the letter so hard it was slowly ripping apart.
He hung his chin to his chest. “I was afraid,” he said.
His words didn’t register then, and if they had it wouldn’t have mattered. I could only feel the blood rushing in my ears.
“I want you out,” I said. “Obviously.”
He stood silently for a while, then said simply, “Okay.”
“By morning.” I laid the letter down at my feet and stood and brushed by him, taking the lamp from his hands.
“Of course.”
I’d gone cold and calm inside. I didn’t look at him, and I didn’t hurry. I just moved out the door and set my feet toward home.
I walked in such a straight line, without moving so much as a branch out of the way, that I was covered in cuts and scratches by the time I got to the house.
I ran the hottest bath possible and now here I am, with this letter to you and a book behind it and a pen balanced on my knees and the hot water stinging all the cuts.
And I keep thinking, of all things—as if it matters—why would James keep all those feathers and leaves with everything else?
The bath has gone cold now, and I have one more thing to write before I head upstairs. Really, it’s more of a question.
I knew a boy once, an otherwise smart person, who believed dragons were real until he mentioned it to a teacher and she laughed at him, and he realized how foolish he’d been. It’s like me and the Cave of the Cup. All these years, I half believed you’d really found the Grail like you said, even when I was poking fun at it. And now I know how silly that was. And I guess my question is, why did you lie to me, Beth? Why, so many times back then, did you like to tell me my faults? Why did you always tell me I was being bossy when I thought I was being strong? I wonder, are you the person I remember? Were you ever?
It doesn’t matter. I’m getting out now to finish packing the last of my things. Bright and early I’ll be on my way to the station and dropping this in the post. I’ll leave from Southampton tomorrow morning.
I don’t know if you’ll get this letter before I arrive. I don’t know if you’ll be waiting for me or not when I catch the train out west. I have so many questions. The biggest one is, will you be happy to see me?
Love, Lenore
ADRI
PART 2
CHAPTER 4
The bright-orange lid of the sun was just rising over the flat horizon. Bleary eyed, Adri flipped back over the pages of the journal and thumbed through Lenore’s letters. There had to be an ending somewhere she’d missed. The journal cut off so suddenly. And Lenore’s letters were incomplete. Where were the letters that had upset Catherine so much? What had they said?
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she whispered.