She laughs. “I want to know if you’ll cook dinner with me.” Is it a silly idea? He has traveled the world, seen history as it was being made. Maybe he doesn’t want something so ordinary. “Or we could do something else, if you like. I know cooking in my flat isn’t as exciting as Amelia Earhart.”
Oliver squeezes her hand. “I would love to peel potatoes with you.”
She gasps and reaches for her throat. “How scandalous.”
“Okay, I totally deserved that.” He kisses her on the cheek. “Lead the way to the kitchen.”
“Is that a weird American euphemism?”
Oliver shakes his head, but his mouth tilts into a smile. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Not tonight.”
May 8, 1945London, England
The bells would have brought Beatrix to St. Paul’s even if Oliver’s invitation hadn’t. The clear, clanging notes stole her breath away as they rang over the rooftops of London, the first time in six years she’d heard that sound.
She passes through the wooden doors that have been thrown wide in welcome. St. Paul’s has survived the war, but not unscathed. The windows are coated in thick layers of black paint or gone altogether, the holes where stained glass used to hang covered by planks of wood. A crater has been boarded up in the marble floor. Beatrix can see right down to the crypt.
She lurks near the aisle, watching the people as they file into the cathedral. It reminds her of her days at old St. Paul’s, scouring the walk for her next mark. An arm snakes around her waist. The scent of apples and lavender and an ancient oak wood drifts over her, a moment before a kiss lands on her cheek. Speaking of old marks.
“I suppose now I know what was so special about today,” Beatrix says. She has known the date Oliver would return since the night in her apartment, but how could she know it would be the day the war ends in Europe, when it hadn’t begun yet?
Oliver releases her. He wears a black suit and clutches a matching brimmed hat in his hands. He’s pinned a red, white, and blue rosette to his wide lapel in honor of the occasion. “Are you a soldier now?” His gaze flicks over her, takes in her navy jacket and skirt, her swept-up hair and cap.
“Air transport.” From this close, she can see the muscles clench in his jaw. He’s at least familiar with her work, then. Dangerous. Unforgiving.
“So, what, you learned how to fly a plane since last time?” he asks, incredulous.
“Yes.” Her instructors said she was lucky to have completed her training when she did, but she didn’t need luck when she knew a war was coming.
He leans closer. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Her eyes meet his. “I did.” Every time she climbed into the cockpit of a damaged plane needing to be brought in for repair, she was terrified of hurtling toward the ground and going up in flames. Every time the air-raid sirens went off, she imagined being blown to smithereens by a Nazi bomb. Would it finally be the end of her, or would the faerie’s magic piece her back together? She had nightmares about it nearly every night, but she couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Not while London burned.
Oliver nods as if he understands. She’s sure he doesn’t. He hasn’t lived through two world wars.
He leans against the arch and Beatrix leans into him. He slips his journal from the inside of his jacket and flips to a dog-eared page.
“Is that today’s itinerary?” Beatrix asks.
Oliver nods absently as he skims the words. Ordinarily, she’d find the habit endearing, but she feels a protectiveness—a possessiveness—over this day. Maybe she has no right to claim she survived the bombings when she knew she would outlive the war, even if London didn’t. But she has lived through the food rations, the clothes rations, the fire and smoke, the wail of air-raid sirens, and the endless dark nights. She has seen homes and livelihoods stolen away in a flash and a bang, has seen men return from the fighting damaged and scarred, has seen the families of men who didn’t return at all. Has worked alongside women who’ve lost husbands and fiancés, fathers and brothers; who’ve lost the promise of a life beyond the war. Who’ve lost hope.
She lays her hand over the page, blocking the words from his view. Oliver’s gaze meets hers. Her heart skips, still.
“I’d like to show you something,” she says. “If you have the time?”
Oliver’s eyes cloud, a shadow there and gone. He closes his notebook and slips it inside his jacket. He offers her his hand, and she takes it. “Lead the way.”
Beatrix crosses beneath the dome, weaving through the throngs ofpeople making their way down the aisle for the next service. She stops in front of a wooden door and glances quickly around. Sure no one is paying her any mind, she pushes it open. She waves Oliver through and slips in behind him.
“Are you sure we’re supposed to be in here?” he whispers.
“I’m sure we’re not.” The cathedral is open only for services, unless you are a member of the Watch, those men who took the prime minister’s orders to heart: “St. Paul’s must be saved at all costs.” Since the day the Blitz began, they have defended it from flames and bombs alike. Beatrix hopes she will get to thank them.
Oliver follows her up the steps, past the Whispering Gallery, to a landing at the bottom of a spiraling iron staircase. “You’re not afraid of small spaces, are you?” she asks. “Or very high ones?”
“No,” Oliver says. “But now I’m intrigued.”
