He chews on his cheek as if he’s trying to decide whether to believe me.
“What’s yours, then?” I ask over the train’s shrieking brakes. A patchwork of fields is rolling into the paved streets of a small town center.
“My finishing word is forsaken,” Miles says.
“How dramatic.”
“Fine. Then I’ll make it emprise. A fancy word for adventure.”
“That’s a good one,” I admit. “You win.” It’s a strong finishing word, especially for an eight-year-old—?even if I hadn’t already decided that I would let him win. “Grab your bag.”
Miles’s eyebrows arch together, and then his green eyes narrow.
“What will you do if I don’t get off?” he asks.
“You will,” I say, picking up his bag along with mine. I pretend they aren’t as heavy as they are.
“No one would blame me, you know,” he says, but he shimmies down the aisle toward the exit. “My mother just died.”
“Right, because I have no idea what that feels like,” I say, and when Miles pauses on the train step, I give him a shove. Then I take a deep breath of my own and step down onto the platform.
There are only two people waiting in the shade of the station’s overhang: a middle-aged woman and someone I assume is her son. I remember Mrs. Cliffton from my mother’s funeral. She was the only person not from Gardner, so she stuck out in the blurred line of mourners who went through the receiving line that day. She had been formal and reserved when she took my hand. “Matilda Cliffton. I was your mother’s best friend from childhood,” she explained, and I recognized her name. “My mother was always so pleased to get a letter from you,” I told her, and I had already moved on to greet the next person when she suddenly hugged me, as if she couldn’t leave until she had done it.
I overheard her offer to help my father however she could. I’m guessing she probably hadn’t envisioned Miles and me stepping off this train three weeks later.
“Hello!” Mrs. Cliffton calls, stepping toward us. Her black crepe funeral dress has been replaced with a day suit the color of plums and a matching hat. Her red hair is pulled up in a smart bun. She is more handsome than I remembered. But maybe it’s because this time she’s smiling. “Welcome!” she says. “Aila, seeing you here is like stepping back in time. You look just like Juliet did when we were young.”
“Thank you,” I say. I am grateful that she can say my mother’s name. That we can still talk of her. “You remember my brother, Miles.”
Miles sticks out his hand. “Miles Quinn,” he repeats solemnly as Mrs. Cliffton takes it. Our father’s pomade has evaporated, and Miles’s cowlick now stands up like a missed clump of grass.
“Welcome, Miles. And this is my son, William. He’ll get your bags,” Mrs. Cliffton says.
“Will,” the boy says, extending his hand. He looks to be about my own age, with dark hair that is slightly overgrown, and I can’t help but notice it covers the tips of his ears. His teeth are slightly crowded in his mouth, and his eyes are a blue I’ve never seen before.
He’s sort of handsome, in a way that falls between scruffy and striking.
“So this is Sterling,” I say quickly, glancing around.
“Actually, no,” Mrs. Cliffton says. “Sterling’s still a good drive from here, but this is our nearest station.” She glances up at the darkening sky. “We’ll want to try to beat the rain.” Will takes our bags from the porter, and Mrs. Cliffton leads us to a Ford station wagon with wood paneling so smooth it looks glazed.
Miles nudges me. “Just so you know,” he whispers, “your ear is showing.”
My hand flies to the tip of my right ear, but it is still hidden under the carefully arranged layers of my hair. Miles’s face breaks into a grin wide enough to reveal the small space between his two front teeth.
“The finishing word just became insufferable,” I hiss. I ignore his wiggling eyebrows and climb into the car.
Mrs. Cliffton opens the driver’s door and takes her place behind the steering wheel. She starts the engine and pulls out onto the road, hunched forward, her gloved fingers wrapped around the wheel. She doesn’t make much conversation, and when the car heaves and jerks, the corners of her mouth tighten. It takes her a moment to find the windshield wipers once the raindrops begin to splatter like paint against the window glass.
“Thank you for bearing with me,” Mrs. Cliffton says, her foot easing and catching on the clutch. “We recently lost our driver. I suppose we’re all doing our best to adapt.” She colors, as if she realizes how this must sound to us. I nod rather than answer. “We are all so hopeful that the war will be over quickly,” she adds.
This is just temporary, my father’s voice echoes in my head.
My mother’s ring hangs weighted around my neck.
The Clifftons’ car sends up thick plumes of dust behind us on the road, and we don’t pass any other drivers or dwellings for miles. “We’re largely farm country,” Mrs. Cliffton explains.
“What does Dr. Cliffton do?” I ask politely.
