“Third shift starts in twenty,” Marjorie says pointedly. “Quit hogging the bed.”
The mattress springs creak as Beatrix slides out of the low, lumpy cot. She won’t even have enough time to stop by the canteen for a glass of milk. Not that she particularly enjoys the stuff, but it keeps that yellow hue out of her skin, a side effect of handling explosives six nights a week.
She grabs her scarf from the trunk at the foot of the bed and wraps her hair in the gauzy fabric, trying in vain to control her unruly strands without the help of hairpins. She throws her peacoat on over the dress she has slept in and steps into her worn-out shoes. She turns back to wish Marjorie a good night, but the woman is already snoring.
Beatrix’s breath clouds as soon as she steps outside. She clutches her coat closed and hurries down the muddy path, past rows of long, low sheds and railway tracks.
The changing rooms are empty, the rest of her shift far more punctual than Beatrix. She pulls a pair of baggy, buttonless coveralls from her locker, strips to her underwear, and pulls them on. Her rubber-soled boots are two sizes too big for her feet and her cap sits low over her eyes, even with all her hair piled beneath it.
She trades her iron ring for a necklace—a round disk the size of a sixpence hanging from a knotted cord, stamped with her name and thebirthday she made up when they hired her. B. Lancourt, forever twenty-three. She tucks it beneath her collar and hurries off to start her shift.
Dozens of women in coveralls work at long benches, inserting fuses and screwing caps onto loaded artillery shells. Beatrix squeezes into a spot between two young women at a table near the door. One of them stifles a yawn.
“Don’t start, Kath, we’ve not even been here half an hour,” the woman across from her says, loud enough to be heard over the din of the capping machine.
“Sorry,” Kath says, yawning again. “Charlie sent a letter. I was up too late writing him back.”
“Oh, that’s lovely! Has he been—”
A burst of light blinds Beatrix just as a thunderous boom cracks the air. White-hot heat sears through her arm, and the floor rocks violently beneath her, throwing her to the ground. Ruptured steam pipes send scalding water pouring down into the smoke-filled room. Kath shouts something, strains to pull her friend off the floor. All Beatrix hears is ringing.
Someone lifts Beatrix to her feet, stumbles with her through the smoke. Her rubber boots slip on the floor—slick with water and blood—and she almost goes down again. Rough, urgent hands pull her up, drag her through the chaos, everything passing in a blur and standing still.
She bursts out into the night, stumbles away from the building, retching against the acrid smoke burning her throat. Her ears are still ringing.
Beatrix is wrapped in a blanket. She can’t remember how she got it. Everything sounds like she’s underwater. It feels like that, too, everything muffled, like she might find peace if she lets herself sink into it.
Someone stands in front of her, silhouetted against the flames, trying to speak to her. But the fire is still raging, and Beatrix can’t tear her eyes from it. She wonders, dimly, if the windows have blown out yet.
“Miss Lancourt? Beatrix?”
“What should we do with her?”
What to do with Beatrix?
“Give her over to the medics. They’ll see to her.”
Give her to the river.
Give her to the abbey.
Give her to the boy.
An arm around her shoulders guides her away from the flames. The scent of apple trees and lavender fields and old familiar woods pulls her back to the present.
It can’t be—
“Oliver?” She looks up into shining blue eyes she hasn’t seen in sixty-five years.
He takes in every inch of her. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. What are you doing here?”
“You’re shaking.” He pulls the blanket closer around her.
“I’m fine,” she says again. As if saying it enough times will make it true.
The furrow between his brows grows deeper. “Why don’t we get out of here? I can find us somewhere to stay in town.”
