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She flexed her fingers, remembering the way he’d touched her hand. It hadn’t made her feel the way a childhood friend or a trusted confidant should.

Sylvia sat up abruptly, throwing off the covers in the darkened room. If she was going to lie awake, thinking ridiculous things, at least she could do something useful.

She swung her feet to the ground and quickly crossed the room to the chair where she’d left the day’s clothes neatly folded. She dressed swiftly and pulled on her coat, hat, and gloves. Then she retrieved her handbag from the side table by the flat’s front door and let herself out.

It was fortunate that there was only a quarter moon that night, reducing the chance that the Germans might decide that that evening was the right time to come back and bomb London to bits once again. Still, she hurried to the bus stop, grateful when one of the last buses of the evening came quickly.

She sat, staring out the window at the unlit streets of London, until they neared her stop. She pulled the cord and the bus slowed to a stop.

Sylvia stepped off onto the pavement and looked up. Overhead she could see the faint outline of a distant barrage balloon. She wondered where Izzie was at that moment, and the low ache for her sister’s company rose up in her. She wanted to pull Izzie into a big hug like she used to do when they were children. She wanted her sister to tell her that everything would be all right. That what she was about to do was the right thing.

She dipped her head and forced herself to walk in the direction of her building.

The lobby, she was grateful to see, was empty, and the lift opened immediately when she pressed the button.

She let herself into the flat, pausing on the threshold to listen out for any signs that Hugo was home. The lights were all off and the air still. She flipped the switch by the door, flooding the entryway with light, and closed the door behind her.

Without stopping to remove her coat or hat, she walked straight down the corridor to Hugo’s study, pushed open the door, and made for his desk. The love letters were in the top right drawer, neatly stacked as they had been the first time she saw them.

“He put them back,” she scoffed, amazed at the arrogance of the man.

With renewed determination, Sylvia picked up the first letter and set it aside. She scooped up the others and tucked them into her handbag. Then she opened the drawer on the left side of Hugo’s desk and pulled out a stack of envelopes and some writing paper. Working methodically, she folded each sheet of paper and slid it into an envelope. When she’d stuffed enough envelopes to satisfy herself, she stacked them neatly where the love letters had been and placed the one she’d set aside on top. Then she closed the drawer, shut the study door, turned off the lights, and left the flat to write a letter of her own.

20 May 1942

Dear Izzie,

A great deal has happened in the past few days, and I’ve hesitated to tell you because I haven’t been certain that you would want to know. Even now my instinct is to try to protect you from difficult things, much as I did when we were younger. However, William reminded me that you are no longer a child and that you deserve to know the truth about many things.

The first thing is this: I am no longer living with Hugo at the flat in Marylebone. Last autumn, I discovered that he has been conducting an affair, which I have no reason to believe has ceased. Although I do not know who the other woman is, I have read letters that lead me to believe that the affair is not merely physical. He loves her, and that makes it so much worse.

When I confronted Hugo about the affair, he didn’t deny it. Instead, he seemed to think that I should accept it as inevitable, and so I left. I am not entirely certain of the state of my marriage, but I plan to speak to William about my options from a legal standpoint.

I did not have anywhere else to go, so I have moved back into our old bedroom in the flat. It feels strange returning when I was so determined that I would never live there again. However, it has also forced me to confront some truths that I have long set aside.

Leaving the shop was never about leaving you, Izzie, but I thought that you would be better off without me. You and Mum had formed your own little unit that was so tight, I could hardly see daylight between you two. You were so alike, and you seemed to understand one another in a way I never could. You didn’t need me.

You wrote that you thought that I met Hugo and decided that I was too good for Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions and this family. Perhaps in some way I did. I was so wrapped up in being enough for him, I was terrified that if I misstepped I would lose him. He seemed so confident and erudite, his parents so intimidatingly proper, his friends so glamorous, that I was desperate to become a part of that world. I thought that if I did I would be happy, and leaving the girl I had been in Maida Vale behind was just a part of that.

I believe that, for a time, Hugo found my background amusing. He used to laugh at my little faux pas and patiently teach me how to be better. I was a project to him, and I was glad of it. For the first time in a long time, I felt as though someone wanted me around.

This is the second difficult thing that I must tell you: our mother blamed me for Papa’s death. You might protest and tell me I’m being too hard on myself, as William tried to. However, I remember what she said to me after his death all too clearly, and I recall all of the times that she would kiss you good night and then turn away from me. I tried my best to be a daughter she could love even a little, but I truly believe that she never forgave me.

There it is. The other reason I left Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions. Our mother was clearly happiest when she was in the workroom with you, teaching you some new stitch or debating the best way to construct a garment. I was only a burden and a reminder.

Our mother might have resented her reduction in circumstances, but she had a natural talent for dressmaking. She passed some of that talent on to you, but you have more than that, Izzie. You have an eye and a boldness in your designs that she never did.

You are brave.

I know that you will protest against what I am writing, but I can see it in your sketches. The one you sent me in your last letter is exquisite and exactly what we need for the fashion show. I have no doubt that it will attract exactly the right kind of attention, and hopefully bring in scores of women wanting to wear an Isabelle Shelton original.

I hope that you will believe me when I tell you how much I want to one day see your designs worn by the most fashionable women in London and across the world.

I hope you will believe me when I tell you how many regrets I have. I hope that you will forgive me.

Your loving sister,

Sylvia