After a brief wait, an orderly waves him deeper into the corridor of lost souls, through the echoing halls and out into a courtyard that seems to be a collection of scattered islands. Men are seated, standing, walking, while nurses sweep around them like tides around lone rocks. There are sparse rose bushes and a fountain in the middle, and the lawn is dotted with patients.
“Over there under the sycamore tree. That’s him.”
Straight back, blond hair neatly combed, wearing the crisp uniform of a lieutenant of the British Royal Army. A fine man, worthy of Florence’s affection. William runs a hand over the wiry hair growing on his neck, the mass of tangled beard hanging off his chin. Mayhap he won’t do this lad any good at all—he is undoubtedly in a better position to pull William out of his pit than the other way around. But William crosses the lawnanyway, striding around the bench to face Lieutenant Samuel Carmichael.
The man is immaculate. Oiled mustache, pressed uniform, hat angled just so. William nods. “Good day.”
The man jerks as if a shot’s been fired. “Prepared for action, Captain.” Metal clanks—his ankle, beneath the spotless uniform, is chained to the bench. “At the ready.” His ice-blue eyes flick wildly over the landscape.
“At ease, Lieutenant,” William says gently. Sometimes the broken wear their cracks a bit differently. “I’m Thatcher.CorporalThatcher. Fifty-second regiment out of Tewkesbury.”
“A small regiment. Small but powerful.”
William winces. “Indeed.” He sits beside him on the bench. Those chains seem a bit overdramatic, especially clamped around such a bony leg. “I’d like to speak with you.”
“I’ve no use for speaking, Corporal.”
“Youdowish to leave here, yes? To heal and be out in the real world. Perhaps I can—”
“Thisisthe real world, sir. Prepared for duty,sir.” His salute bounces off his forehead.
His face has slight craters and pockmarks, a youthful narrowness, but otherwise it appears carved from rock. And all the soft, slippery, vulnerable parts of him are barely tucked behind that rock.
“The war has ended, Lieutenant, and the fighting is over.”
“The warneverends, Corporal. I shall notabandon my post. Prepared for action,sir!” His stare is firm…and half wild. Mad eyes, they’d call it. One that might lead to maniacal laughter just as easily as murder. He cannot even see William. Cannot see or grasp the world around him. It’s too much.
It’s heartbreaking.
William is staring into the face of his greatest fear. The cliff he’s teetered on the edge of all this time…but he hasn’t goneover. Yet. Kneeling on the path, William gets in the man’s face. “I know you’re in there, Samuel Carmichael. Be brave and come back out.”
A tic in his left cheek.
“It’s worth it, this world.” He surprises himself with this. “Parts of it, at least.” He closes his eyes and feels the powerful rush of blue waves, the peace of Dunn Cottage, the rich history carved into this coast. He recalls, when he lets himself, the warmth of Helen’s hand moving up his arm, clutching his hand, dancing over his knee. Such small things that used to belong to him—canbelong to this man, with that artist, if he wishes it. “I knew of another artist who leaned upon the woman he loved. She was his muse, and I believe she shaped him. He became a well-known artist about these parts, but he couldn’t have done it alone. You needn’t either.”
How he’d give anything to not be alone—to feel the weight of Helen in his lap on a warm summer afternoon in the garden, the tiny burden of his newborn son, the shock of pruny infant fingers curling around his. “You’ve no idea what might be around the corner, if you’re willing to look.”
The man’s lip quivers, or perhaps William imagines it.
“You’ve a grand future. I’ve met Florence. She’s really something, you know, and—”
He lunges, snarling and flailing, and William stumbles back, rolling out of reach.
“Stay away from Florence, you thieving rotter. Yousnake.” Like a dog on the chain, Lieutenant Sam Carmichael strains against the shackles.
He will bloody himself. His face is red.
An orderly rushes over. “Here’s a nice cuppa. Warm your insides, Lieutenant Carmichael,” she says.
She dodges as he strains against the chains, but William wonders what the man’d even do if he were free. He doesn’t wantto escape the prison he’s built up around himself. He doesn’t have a Dunn Cottage—thisis his sanctuary. His stiffness and anger are his shield.
The nurse clamps one hand behind his head and urges him to sip the tea. He drinks and almost immediately his lids droop. The fight dims. When he sags against the bench, the orderly turns to William. “You’d best leave, sir. Visits upset him.” Then she hurries off to attend the other patients, most of whom are dead fish propped in chairs.
Not this one. He still has fire in him. He hasn’t given up—he’s merely charging in the wrong direction. No, he hasn’t any idea which way to charge, only the primal sense that he must.
William kneels even closer, grabbing the man’s uniformed arm. “See here, Lieutenant. You’re better than this. You’ve marched out in battle, faced terrible things. This is merely a different battle. Surely you mustwantto leave here. To get back to the real world.”
His voice slurs. “Thisisthe real world. Sir.”
