Germany at war.
France at war.
Belgium at war.
One unremarkable morning, late in the summer, Beatrix ties on her apron and heads to the dining room. The sea outside the windows iscalm, the sky cloudless, the day already promising to be warm. She picks up a discarded breakfast tray and her gaze snags on another bold headline.
The tray slips from her grasp, and the plates and glasses clatter against one another. Dregs of cold tea spill over the words that have stopped her heart.
Great Britain at war.
November 2, 1914Great Yarmouth, England
Beatrix intends to abandon England to its fate. She saves enough money to buy a one-way third-class ticket on an ocean liner to America, packs her single suitcase, and tries not to think about the fate of theTitanic.
She gets as far as the train station.
The girl standing alone on the concrete platform can’t be more than six years old, with mousy brown hair plaited into two French braids and brown eyes that are too big—and too serious—for her round face. She has forgotten her coat somewhere, and her nose has turned pink from the chill in the air. An ache blooms in Beatrix’s chest.
She sets her bag on the pavement near the girl’s feet. Her scuffed patent-leather shoes are too big for her, too. “Hello. Are you waiting for the next train?”
The girl straightens and puffs out her chest. “Yes.”
“Are you expecting someone?” Beatrix prods.
“I’m running away. To London.” She says it as if it were some magical far-off place, like Peter Pan’s Neverland.
Beatrix smiles down at her. “Fancy that, I’m running away, too.”
The girl’s gaze snaps to her face. She gasps. “Your eyes are two different colors!”
“They are,” Beatrix says. And maybe because the girl reminds her of Margaret, with her braids falling loose and her curious gaze, she whispers, “All the better for seeing faeries.”
“George says there’s no such thing as faeries,” the girl says, frowning. It was obviously a point of contention between them.
“Does he now?” Beatrix says. “And who, might I ask, is George?”
“My older brother.”
Beatrix guesses that he must not be much older than the girl, or else she wouldn’t be so annoyed by his declaration. It was like Victor and Margaret, Alice and Isabella. The closer in age, the better they were at getting under each other’s skin.
“He obviously hasn’t checked down by the old Roman wall. Or under the pier. Or in the minster cemetery.” Not that Beatrix has seen a faerie in any of those places, but they sound like somewhere a child would expect one to be—sleeping inside flowers and drinking dewdrops at sunrise.
“He’s afraid of the cemetery, but I’m not,” the girl boasts.
“It’s a pity you’re going to London,” Beatrix says. “I don’t think faeries much care for the city.”
“I could go tomorrow…”
Beatrix nods. “You might have better luck finding them now that the crowds have gone for the season.”
The girl’s face brightens. “Will you show me where to look?”
Beatrix glances at her watch. “Oh, I don’t know…”
“Please?” she begs.
Beatrix gives her a smile. “I suppose I could take the next train.”
