Oliver tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I need you to make me a promise.” His voice is low and urgent. Terrified. “Stay out of London.”
Beatrix pulls away from him. “What?”
“Not forever,” he assures her. “From September 1940 to May 1941, at the very least. Please.”
Her pulse quickens. “What happens in London?”
Oliver avoids the question. “Promise me you won’t be there.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“World War II and you want me to run? I can help.”
“Britain is on the winning side,” Oliver says. “They don’t need your help.”
Beatrix searches his face. “Are you sure?”
Oliver clenches his jaw. He’s not. He can’t be. “London will be bombed for eight months straight. Thousands of people die.”
Beatrix’s blood runs cold. London is going to burn, again. Will it rise this time? She’s too afraid to ask. “Then how can you expect me to leave?”
Oliver stands abruptly, paces the length of the room. He runs a hand through his hair, then turns to her, his eyes pleading. “I am trying to protect you.”
“You don’t have to protect me, Oliver. I survived a hundred years all on my own before I ever met you.” She doesn’t need him.
“But this is different—”
She doesn’t let him finish. “It’s my life.”
“Please,” Oliver says. “I just want to know you’ll be safe.”
Safe, while London burns. Safe, while everyone else lives and fights and dies for her home. Safe, because he loves her. The thought sends an icy flood through her veins. It pools in her chest, threatens to drown her.
Oliver sinks down onto the bed next to her. “Even you can’t survive a bomb.”
Beatrix isn’t so sure. “Why not? I survived the plague. Well, not exactly. I caught the plague. I died from it. I came back.”
Oliver stares at her, his face pale, eyes wide with horror.Good.
“I starved to death begging on the streets of London, until I learned how to steal. Came close to freezing enough times that I sold myself to any man with a warm bed. Froze to death on a night I couldn’t bear to do it again.”
“Bea…”
Tears prick behind her eyes. She keeps going. “I jumped into the Thames in the middle of winter. Leaped right off the center of LondonBridge. I went through the ice. I thought if I froze and drowned, I could escape. But I didn’t. I drowned. I froze. I lived. I was stuck beneath the ice. I lost count of how many times I died that night.”
Oliver shudders. He looks like he might be sick. Maybe he’s beginning to understand.
“The bombs won’t kill me, Oliver. Nothing will.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“Then maybe I should stay,” she snaps. “I haven’t tried being blown to bits.”
“That’s not funny,” Oliver says.
“I’m not joking,” Beatrix replies. “It’s only the being put back together that frightens me.”
