“Yes,” said Winter.
Softly Freddie said, “ ‘Is this the region, this the soil, the clime, said then the lost Archangel—’ ”
He hesitated. No poet, in his bleakest dreams, could ever have imagined this darkness. But Winter said, “Go on.”
“ ‘—this the seat that we must change for heaven, this mournful gloom for that celestial light?’ ”
A crash interrupted him, a shattering roar. A heavy must have hit the remains of the pillbox. The bombardment had come close again. Freddie lost his grip on the words. The world convulsed. He tasted copper, realized he was bleeding. He jerked in the dark, some instinct to get away. But there was nowhere to go. He struck his head on—something. Winter was beside him; his last memory was of trying confusedly to catch hold of his hand, feeling an instant of gratitude—that they were dying and not lingering, buried alive. Then he was unconscious.
HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA, CANADIAN MARITIMES
February 1918
Penelope Shaw’s foyer was aVictorian riot of wallpaper finches. Her hat stand was carved to look like a candelabrum and had to weigh fifty pounds. Laura draped her knitted scarlet tam on the latter, where it hung limply and looked inadequate. “I should have brought a larger hat,” said Laura. “If I had such a thing.”
“I am so glad to see you,” said Mrs. Shaw. She had got a little thinner since that night in the Parkeys’ parlor, and she was dressed in full Victorian mourning, black from head to toe. But her back was straight, her clothes brushed, her manners impeccable. She said, “How are you, my dear? Have you been sleeping?”
“I’ll do,” said Laura. “The hospital has started to empty out. I think I shall take up a hobby. I read about a fine British lady who breeds hellebores.”
“I volunteered at the hospital in the early days.” Mrs. Shaw led Laura down a thick-carpeted hallway. “Spooning soup into people.But I wasn’t good at it, really. I’d see all those poor children—” Her voice faltered. “And I didn’t do them any good, fumbling and getting teary-eyed. I was better at knitting—I’ve been making ever so many baby blankets. And little socks. This way.”
Laura found herself walking gingerly. The carpet was the tender yellow of buttercups. She wasn’t used to softness. The Parkeys lived in a rambling old pile, and the old ladies were as indifferent to comforts as a trio of hunting dogs. Laura was worse, after years in field hospitals. She could sleep on bare dirt if she had to. But Penelope Shaw’s house was frivolous, and colorful, and soft. It made Laura uneasy.
“Oh—I’m so glad you’re here,” Mrs. Shaw said, half-turning as she walked. “It’s the least I can do, the very least, after tackling you in that silly way. And then you found out—and I…” Her voice faltered again. “What do you like with tea? Sugar is so dear, but I managed a little—and oatcakes, and I—” She threw open a parlor door. “Oh, Mary, my dear, here’s the lady I was telling you about. Miss Laura Iven, Mrs. Mary Borden.”
She sailed into the room. Laura, startled, paused in the doorway. She knew the name Mary Borden. Mrs. Shaw had led them into a charming, old-fashioned parlor. Laura had a muddled impression of pastels: peonies on china, a pink and green rug. A fine coal fire going in the grate, the last word in luxury, with coal so dear. Penelope Shaw and her house together were like a picture postcard from the last century. From the world that had ended when the war began.
The woman waiting for them stood out starkly against all the old-fashioned loveliness. About Mrs. Shaw’s age, and her hair was short as Laura’s. No corset. A ruffian’s smile. The look in her eyes, Laura recognized from her own mirror. “Mary Borden, Laura Iven,” said Mrs. Shaw.
Mary said, “A pleasure. I’ve heard of you, of course, Iven. A Croix de Guerre, wasn’t it?”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Borden,” said Laura. She’d been decorated in ’15, after the first gas attack of the war. It was nothing she wanted a memento of, let alone to discuss with a stranger. “Is thatcurried chicken in that sandwich? How international of you, Mrs. Shaw. How many can I eat before you show me the door?”
“Call me Pim,” said Mrs. Shaw. “My friends do. As many as you care to. You want fattening up.” She turned the plate. “These have jam, and these have roast beef.”
“You angel. Call me Laura,” said Laura, sitting down on a raspberry-striped loveseat. She wondered if Pim would let her smoke a cigarette in her parlor. Probably not. She took four sandwiches. Pim’s eyes got big.
“I heard rumors you’d died, Iven,” Mary said. “Thirdhand, of course, but still. You look well, for a corpse. But not unscathed either.”
“No? I’m blithe as a bird,” said Laura, taking a bite of a sandwich. “What brings you to Halifax, Mrs. Borden? Done with the war at last?”
Mary Borden, not really a nurse herself, was still moderately famous. She had founded a private aid station behind the lines—in the Belgian sector, Laura thought, or was it the French—in the early days of the war. Managed to convince a lot of skeptical people to let her run it.
“No. I’m going back a week from Thursday,” said Mary.
“How do you like your tea, Laura?” Pim put in.
“Hot,” said Laura. “Extremely. With four sugars, and as much milk as you can cram in.”
“Same for me, Pim,” Mary said.
“My,” said Pim, pouring and stirring.
“It’s because of the water,” said Mary. “In the forbidden zone. They chlorinate it, or we’d all have dysentery. Enough sugar you don’t taste the chlorine. The sweet’s a bit of a habit now. It keeps you on your feet when there’s a push on.”
“The where?” said Pim, looking fascinated.
Mary looked briefly self-conscious. “I mean the back area, behind the lines. It’s just what I call it. There are signs everywhere in French:zone interdite,they say. So I call it the forbidden zone.”
