I take a breath. The pressure beneath my skin eases a little. "There's definitely no relatives?"
"We are all good. Stop worrying." Her attention is drawn back to her phone. "Oh look. She's doing a live feed of her looking for his name on the war memorial."
"It's happening now?"
"Well, yeah. Of course it's happening now."
Happening now means Bess is about to learn the soldier she has formed an attachment to is dead. I push myself out of my chair and run out of the library and onto the street.
She's nearly at the war memorial. Jeanette follows further down the road with Carlos bringing up the rear, his stiff leg swinging to form a hobbling gait.
I take off at a sprint and outrun Jeanette and Carlos, reaching her just as she ends the video and puts her phone in her pocket.
She turns to me, lips quivering and eyes glistening. Then she shrugs as if to say, "Ah well," because she is bold and brave and ready to accept this outcome.
Bloody Mistral. Bloody Mistral and all those useless inventors who have made a machine for burning selfies into a piece of toast, but not time travel.
How on earth did not a single one of us, not even Jeanette, think through what the outcome would be when Bess finds out who the fictional soldier was. Of course Mistral was going to pick someone who suffered a convenient death in action. I am such an arsehole for allowing this – any of this – to happen.
"I'm so sorry, Bess." I open my arms in case this is what she needs, but she just sniffs and shakes her head, which the selfish part of me is intensely grateful for. I don't think I could handle her breaking apart and especially not in my arms when I'm about to make everything so much worse.
The others catch up to us.
Carlos staggers against the memorial and gulps at the air.
Jeanette says, "Bess. Sweetheart."
And here it is. The time to find the courage that's been evading me for over a year. "You know how you said you would secure a future for Port Derrum artists no matter what it takes?"
Bess swallows and her voice cracks on, "Of course."
"Even if it's unethical? Even maybe if it's illegal?"
She nods and her eyes flick to Jeanette.
"Well." I look at the memorial, unable to meet her gaze. "The Tuesday Night Art Fight crew and Mistral orchestrated the whole...letter thing."
After a moment, Bess says, "What do you mean?"
I do look at her then. I drink in her heart-arresting eyes, the little mole on her cheek, the crease in her bottom lip. It might be the last time I get close enough to her to appreciate them. To wonder at how an arrangement of completely different features could end up so perfect.
Jeanette moves to stand by Bess to, no doubt, offer her solace and support. But she gives me a little encouraging nod.
"The first letter was real. When it got you and the gallery so much attention, the rest were...fabricated to take advantage of that. To help raise the money needed."
With a frown, Bess puts a hand to her chest and looks at the plaque of names on the monument. Then she looks back at me. "The letters...weren't real?"
I close my eyes. Of course they were real. I meant every word, every sentiment. All of it was written out of love.
Opening my eyes, I whisper, "No."
"William Brownly isnotthe soldier on the other end of the letters?"
When I shake my head, Bess grabs a fistful of her hair with each hand and stands looking at me with the triangles of her arms protruding outwards. "Wow." The word catches, like it has hitched in her throat. "Okay." She looks at the monument again and inhales raggedly. After several breaths, she exhales out a shaky and completely humourless laugh. "This is a bit...much."
"We didn't –" I look up at the sky and suck in a lungful of air. "We didn't tell you so your reaction would remain authentic for the videos." God. It sounds horrific when articulated out loud. "It wasn't an easy decision to make, but we felt it was our best shot at getting into a position that would protect both your business and local artists."
Bess drops her arms and smiles a singularly unhappy smile, before turning away from me. After a moment, she shakes her head. "I can't process this. I just..."
