“Good.” Beatrix pecks him on the cheek. “Then up we go.”
The stairs twist tightly upward, just wide enough for them to climb in single file. One hundred and fifty-two steps later, they stand in front of a heavy wooden door. She leans into it, heaves it open with her shoulder, and steps through.
Beatrix is momentarily blinded by the sunlight. When her vision returns, all of London is laid out below her, sprawling to the horizon. She steps up to the gilt railing.
Oliver leans next to her. “Wow” is all he can manage to say.
From above—far beyond the strings of bunting and waving Union flags—it is easy to see the toll the war has taken on the city. There are buildings with no roofs or windows, fronts that have crumbled away to reveal hollow interiors. Jagged remnants of walls rise like islands from a sea of debris. Mangled metal and piles of brick, splintered wood and shattered glass, and every precious thing that made a home, spilling out across London.
But there are also hundreds of thousands of people, singing and laughing, dancing and cheering. The bells are ringing and flags are flying, and from the top of St. Paul’s dome, Beatrix can see it all: where hope meets grief, where relief borders guilt, where triumph sits alongside uncertainty. She knows better than most, perhaps better than anyone, what a long road lies ahead. It is never going back to how it was before.
Tears spring to her eyes. She can’t tell if they are tears of relief or joy, sorrow or exhaustion. Maybe they are all those things. She brushes them quickly away. Oliver still notices.
“They’re going to rebuild it,” he says. “London will be as good as new.”
“No spoilers,” Beatrix warns. She wants to discover her new London all on her own.
Oliver smiles. “Still too early to say that.”
She gestures toward the skyline. “This is a historic day, and I know you want to see as much of it as you can.”
“I sense abutcoming.”
“I’ve been here through all of this. And I’m the one who’s going to be here tomorrow.” When the fun is past and the work of rebuilding a normal life begins. “This is more than just a party for me.”
“Of course it is,” he says, though he sounds like he has only just realized it.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “But can we do this one my way?”
Oliver pulls her into him. “That sounds perfect.”
She searches his eyes for some shadow of doubt. “You’re not disappointed about your journal?”
“I want to do more than check boxes,” he says. “Besides, you’re absolutely right. This isn’t my day.”
Beatrix slips her hand into his and squeezes it. “Thank you.”
They stroll around the perimeter of the dome, taking in London Bridge and Blackfriars and the monument commemorating the Great Fire. The Thames. The places where the Globe and the Crystal Palace once stood. Places she visited lifetimes ago.
They climb down the stairs, spiraling back into the dome. Beatrix comes to an abrupt halt in front of a wooden door painted with a golden hand, pointing the way to the galleries above. “Do you know what the prime minister is going to say in his speech this afternoon?”
Oliver smirks at her. “I thought you didn’t want spoilers.”
“I don’t,” Beatrix says. “But for you, the whole day is spoiled, isn’t it?”
Oliver shrugs. “I know the highlights.”
She nods to the door. “Do you know what’s through there?”
He glances at it. “No.”
“Good. Neither do I.” She ignores the sign that declares the door Not to Be Opened, and drags Oliver through behind her.
“Congratulations, I think we found St. Paul’s attic,” Oliver says, glancing around the wide, windowless corridor. An assortment of furniture and paintings and odd shapes covered with white cloths clutters the space.
But Beatrix is drawn to something else. Narrow wooden shelves line a section of the wall from floor to ceiling, piled with gray stones of every shape and size.
“And their rock collection,” Oliver adds, next to her.
