They both drink. The rich, smoky notes of the coffee meld with the sweetness of the chocolate and the cream. “If I lived in Vienna, I’d drink this every day,” she says.
“Agreed,” Oliver says.
Beatrix laughs. “You have whipped cream on your nose.” She plucks a napkin from the tray and swipes it away for him.
“Thanks,” he says, the faintest blush rising in his cheeks.
She props her elbow on the table and rests her chin on her hand. “What are you going to write in your journal about today?”
Oliver ponders the question. “Blew off Beethoven to get lost in Vienna with a beautiful woman. Wandered the gardens at Schönbrunn Palace with her. Had the best coffee of my life and discovered she learned an entire language because it might come in handy. Honestly, she’s a little intimidating. I think I’m in over my head.”
Beatrix laughs again.
Oliver continues. “Time went too fast, as per usual. Didn’t want it to end. Asked to meet her again in twenty-seven years.”
Her pulse races. “I don’t remember that part.”
“I’ll be in London in 1851,” he says.
“So will I.”
Her guts twist. Twenty-seven years. She reaches into her pocket, feels the sharp crease of the page. “Before you go—before you come back, Imean…” Her stomach is suddenly full of butterflies. She pulls the folded paper from her pocket. “I was wondering, while you’re gone, do you think—could you help me with something?”
Oliver takes the paper from her trembling hand.
“I found it in Professor Winfield’s library the day I was dismissed. I forgot I had it until after you’d gone.”
Four years ago, Oliver left her on a rain-soaked street outside a tiny London pub. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets, reaching for her gloves, and felt the letter. She tore it open and read it right there, then promptly returned to the pub for another drink.
Oliver unfolds the page and reads.
Tuesday, 7 April 1818
Dearest Professor,
I have completed cataloging the stones at the cemetery of St. James’s Church in Lancaut, Gloucestershire. As per your request, I have enclosed my report of the matrilineal line of Beatrix Woodward (née Atwood): born 19 July 1481, died 13 June 1505.
I look forward to discussing the findings with you soon.
Yours most sincerely,
Edward Davies
Oliver looks up at her. “What is this?”
“Professor Winfield studied faerie lore,” she says. She doesn’t know exactly what he was looking for or what he found. Perhaps the whispers of Lancaut had survived as long as she had.
She hands Oliver the other pages. “This is his report.”
His gaze darts across the papers. Hers must have done the same, trying to make sense of the names she didn’t recognize and the dates that spanned generations, until those two words—the last two words—stopped her heart.
Presently living.
“It’s your family tree,” Oliver says. “Your daughter’s daughter and her daughter, all the way until…”
“Now,” Beatrix says. Or, more precisely, 1818, when Edward Davies wrote it.
She went to Tintern the next day. Got off the ferry and walked into the nearest pub, asked after the man who had sent the letter. The address wasn’t far, the man behind the bar assured her. Just past the abbey. What was left of it.
