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“Never better,” she said, giving a little laugh.

“You’re crying,” he said.

She lifted a hand to her cheek and found it wet. “So I am.”

William produced a handkerchief, crisp and clean, just as she’d known it would be, from his pocket.

“I suppose I’m relieved, really. I was worried that something terrible would happen, and Izzie would be so disappointed in me,” she confessed, the words she’d never spoken aloud before tumbling out to this man who had once been her childhood companion as swiftly as her tears. “I don’t think I could stand it if I lost Izzie her shop.”

“It’s your shop too,” said William.

“Only for as long as it takes for this wretched war to finish and for her to come home.”

Feeling suddenly awkward herself, she dabbed at her tears and then handed him back his handkerchief. “Thank you, William. Are you certain you won’t stay for a cup of tea? It’s the least I can do after crying all over your linen.”

He took the handkerchief and tucked it back into his pocket. “Thank you, but I really should be going.”

“Of course,” she said.

He nodded and stepped back to settle his hat. “Good night, Sylvia.”

“Good night.” She moved to open the door but then, with her hand on the knob, stopped herself. “It was good to see you, William.”

He smiled, and then tugged on the brim of his hat. “It was good to see you too.”

She opened the door and he brushed by, leaving her alone in the shop once again.

The following day, when Miss Reid came in Sylvia was ready and waiting, seated in a chair she’d pulled up to the cutting table. She had the sketchbook she’d found open in front of her, a cup of tea half-drunk next to her hand.

“Good morning,” said Miss Reid, shrugging off her black wool coat.

“Miss Reid, will you come look at this?” Sylvia asked.

With a frown, the seamstress put her coat on her usual peg, deposited her handbag next to her machine, and walked over. As soon as Miss Reid’s eyes landed on the sketchbook, she let out an “Oh…”

“Do you know where this sketchbook came from?” Sylvia asked.

Miss Reid glanced at Sylvia, then at the sketchbook, then back again. Finally, she said, “It’s one of your sister’s.”

Sylvia traced her fingers over a sleek black evening coat.

“I knew she liked to draw, but I didn’t realize she could do this,” she murmured.

Miss Reid lifted her chin and nodded. “Not long after you left, your sister began to carry a sketchbook around with her everywhere. I used to ask her what was in it, but it was a full year before she showed me anything. They were good. A bit too romantic for my taste, but good.

“However, as she became older, she became more interested in what the couture houses in Paris were making. She stripped back all of the fabric flowers and bows. She became very good,” said Miss Reid, as close to beaming with pride as Sylvia had ever seen her.

“She must have showed them to our mother,” Sylvia said, turning a page and looking at the designs with new eyes. “I found this on the bookshelf in my mother’s office.”

“Miss Shelton did show her sketches to your mother from time to time,” said Miss Reid carefully.

“But,” she prompted.

“I believe Mrs. Shelton thought that they weren’t suitable for the shop’s clientele,” said Miss Reid.

“Then why was this stuffed onto the bookshelf with all of my mother’s drawings?” Sylvia asked.

Miss Reid’s lips tightened. “On occasion, Mrs. Shelton would become frustrated with Miss Shelton spending her time drawing and confiscate a book.”