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“Let’s see to your wrist,” he said as he turned to her.
Wordlessly, Lily held her arm out.
Matthew turned her wrist over with gentle hands and inspected the scratch. It wasn’t deep, but it had drawn enough blood to need to be dressed. His fingers were lean and long as they moved over her wrist. Piano player’s hands, she thought irrelevantly.
Carol had insisted both she and Sophie have lessons when they were children. Sophie hadn’t practiced and Lily had been as good as tone-deaf, banging diligently on the keys until Carol had put a stop to the whole thing.
Now Lily wondered if Matthew played the piano. She imagined him seated in front of one, his long fingers rippling over the keys. He’d told her how he’d danced with his mother, and she thought he must like music. But what sort of man was he? The sort who could be a spy? What else was she meant to think? Who would have a message in German, attached to the leg of a carrier pigeon?
“It’s not too bad,” Matthew said. “But I’ll put some salve on it.”
He was still holding her hand in his own as she looked up at him. His face was close, and his dark eyes seemed liquid, as if she could drown in them. For a second, Lily felt as if the whole world had fallen away, and she didn’t know whether it was from fear or longing.
“I’ll fetch it,” Matthew murmured and, releasing her hand, he left the room.
Lily let out a shuddering breath and clutched her wrist with her other hand, as if it were broken. She had half a mind to run out of the house, and yet the other half was telling herself not to be so utterly ridiculous.
What would Sophie do, if she were here? Lily knew the answer immediately. She would flirt and laugh and try to winkle out information from Matthew, just in case he really was a spy. She would find it all the most tremendous fun, thrilled that she was finally doing something exciting for the war, that something interesting was happening to her. She might even be disappointed if Matthew turned out not to be a spy.
Why couldn’t Lily be like her?
“Here we are.” Matthew came back into the kitchen, brandishing a bottle of brown glass. He smiled, his eyes crinkling, his expression so very gentle. It made Lily feel like bursting into tears. She couldn’t stand him being kind right now. She really couldn’t, not when she thought he might be a spy, and she should hate him for it.
“Thank you,” she managed in little more than a hoarse whisper, and she held her arm out again, as Matthew took the stopper out and then dipped a finger into the salve before holding Lily’s hand and rubbing the cream gently into the abrasion.
It was such a simple act, and yet it made Lily catch her breath. The feel of his fingers on her skin was mesmerizing, electrifying. She felt as if she could curl up and go to sleep, and yet at the same time she was more awake than she’d ever been. How was that possible? How could he be a spy?
“Does it hurt?” Matthew asked, and she looked up, only to find his face close to hers once more, his gaze seeming to pull her in. His fingers tensed on her wrist and for a second—a lifetime—everything felt suspended, endless, the world slowing down and speeding up at the same time, so Lily was aware of the beat of her blood, the tick of the clock, the catch of Matthew’s breath—
Then he released her hand and stepped away.
“The tea,” he said, and Lily realized the kettle had started to whistle.
She closed her eyes.
Matthew made the tea while Lily simply stood there. She knew she should make some chitchat, or at least herself useful, but simply standing there and breathing felt like all she was capable of. Her wrist had started to throb, and she didn’t know whether it was from the graze or Matthew’s gentle attentions.
“I forgot the dressing,” he said, and left the kitchen for a moment, to return with a length of gauze.
“Where did you get that?” Lily asked. “We haven’t seen gauze dressings since the start of the war.”
“There’s plenty, at the base.” He gestu
red for her to hold out her hand yet again, and then wrapped the dressing around it, tucking it neatly. “There you go. Now come and warm up with a cup of tea.”
Lily sat down at the table, wrapping her hands around the cup Matthew gave her for warmth. He sat opposite her, smiling faintly.
“Better?”
She smiled back, the curve of her lips taking effort. “Yes.”
The quiet kitchen felt like a world away from everything else—the Casualties Section, Holmside Road, the war. Right now, the night still and silent all around them, the only sound the occasional clank or crackle from the range, Lily felt as if they could be the only two people alive. The only ones left.
“You remind me of my little sister,” Matthew said unexpectedly. He cocked his head to one side, his smile still faint but in place.
“Do I?”
“Yes. She was quiet and shy, until you came to know her. Then she could be very playful, a little performer. I think perhaps you are a little like that.”
