“It’s all right, Pim,” said Mary. “Iven will defend your virtue.”
“I’m not defending anyone without three hours of sleep, a cup ofcoffee, and a cigarette,” said Laura, drying herself off. “Mary, what are you doing up here? I hope no one is hemorrhaging. Go rouse Jones. If I try to work a shift right now, I will poison someone by accident.”
“I am aware,” said Mary. “No, I was going through my correspondence and there was a letter for you.” She held it out. “Go to bed. Tomorrow will come quick, and you have shift schedules to think of, Iven. And Jones tells me you must put on ten pounds at least, and that your cough is still unpleasant.”
“Officious man,” said Laura. She tossed the letter onto her cot.
Mary was studying Laura’s limbs, the way a horse-coper looks at a horse. “He’s quite right. Lord, I thought you were bony before.”
“Good night, Mary.”
Mary departed, and Laura put on a ratty jumper over her chemise, laid her uniform dress, apron, and boots ready to hand. “Get some sleep while you can,” she told Pim. “If Mary’s right, we won’t be getting much in the near future.” She picked up her letter, slit it with her pocket lancet.
She knew the handwriting.Kate.
My Dear Laura,
How are you? Imagine my surprise when you wrote and told me you were coming back, that you’d taken a place at Couthove. So near. I should very much like to see you, if you can get away. I’ve got one or two things of yours here, and of course news. I met a friend of yours a few weeks ago, and I know how much you love a good gossip, my dear. Come and I shall tell you all.
Laura blinked. She had left nothing at Brandhoek. And what friend?
They’ve moved me back from Brandhoek, thank goodness. I’m at Mendinghem now, a much pleasanter place, on the whole, and ascant few miles from your château. At least we don’t have to do rounds with our gas masks at the ready. I am so eager to see you, Laura.
Laura wanted few things more than to see Kate White again. But the tone was unlike her, there was an eager undercurrent,just like her last letter.What are you trying to tell me?
Thinking hard, she put the letter aside and climbed into her cot. If she was to go anywhere, it must be soon. The tension gathering in the air was palpable. The next great battle was a matter ofwhen,notif,and it would, quite possibly, be decisive. And when it was joined, she wouldn’t be able to go anywhere at all.
BRANDHOEK AND PARTS UNKNOWN, FLANDERS, BELGIUM
November 1917
Freddie stood like a pillarof salt, a man stripped at once of purpose, past, and future. He wished the dead man would come, and take his vengeance. He was a murderer. A traitor. He should have drowned too.
Beside him, Faland resettled his shoulders in his shabby suit. “Well, then,” he said. “I shall leave you to it.” He stepped into the dark. But a stray gleam caught his rain-silvered hair, and Freddie came out of his stupor and snatched Faland’s sleeve.
Faland’s expression turned inquiring.
“Where are you going?” said Freddie. He was thinking of that deep, quiet cellar, the way it had looked in the light of the candle held in Faland’s fist. Otherworldly. Even safe. Freddie would give anything to have that feeling again. He wanted to leave the world and never come back. But he was too much of a coward, he thought bitterly, to put a pistol in his mouth and pull the trigger.
“Here and there,” said Faland.
“Will you— May I come with you?”
Faland raised both brows. “That is the behavior of a very bad soldier indeed. You’ve comforted your enemy, and now you’ll desert your country?”
Enemy? Was Germany his enemy? In the last few days, Germany had become Winter, breathing with him in the dark. Freddie said, “Germany didn’t put my sister’s hospital next to a munitions dump.”
Faland’s smile was beautiful in itself, but brutal in its contrast with the night. “Perhaps you may. I do have my fees, however.”
“How much?” whispered Freddie. “I’ve nothing.”
“No? Every night you stay with me, I want you to tell me a story. Something about yourself. Good or bad, I don’t care. But it must be true.”
Freddie didn’t know if it was the cold rain or his own rattling heartbeat that made him shake. Nothing felt real. “Why?”
“Call it inspiration,” said Faland.
“For whom?”
