Page 26 of The Light Between Worlds

“No matter what preparations have been made, it will be ugly,” Philippa says, her voice low. “And we’ll be in the thick of things. What we lived through in London will be nothing compared to this.”

I have Philippa’s same memories of war. Of being desperate to escape the fear as well as the day-to-day, grinding tedium of it. Of wishing myself straight out of one world and into another. But this is the Woodlands, where I found a safe haven for a time. I love the people who live in the Great Wood, tilling its soil and singing its songs. I love the forest itself—its clearings, thick with wildflowers; its little rivers that laugh over smooth stones; its green-shadowed, tremulous depths. I love this castle by the sea, where I’ve lived for longer than anywhere I can remember in the world I was born to.

I was always on my way from one place to the other in England, never having time to settle and put down roots. Here, my roots go down to the very heart of the Great Wood, and plucking them up might kill me.

I know now I’d go through worse things than war if it meant keeping the Woodlands safe. And war, it seems, is finally coming.

17

THIS IS WHAT TRYING TO LIVE IN OUR WORLD LOOKS LIKE:Saturday afternoons clearing the back field with Tom Harper.

He works as hard as three men, and it doesn’t take us long to get the last of the gardens sorted. It seems natural after that to turn our attention to the field. We dig up brambles and fill in holes and patch the roof of an old cowshed near the rusty gate.

On a drizzly morning in late October I’m out back hacking away at a particularly insistent vine that’s draped itself over the fence and threatens to pull sections of it down. I don’t expect Tom—he’d have a terribly wet walk—but then I hear a shout and see him standing under the eaves of Hobb’s hut.

“Ev! Come in out of the rain. We’ve got a surprise for you.”

I leave the vine to live another day and hurry across the field. Hobb is just stepping out of the cottage in one of his worn grey mackintoshes, and I’m wearing its twin. He seems to have an endless supply of them. Tom’s got one on as well, and we look like a trio of overgrown gadwall ducks.

“Well, Miss Evelyn,” says Hobb. “How do you fancy a drive into town?”

“Am I allowed?” I ask.

Hobb taps the side of his nose and winks broadly. “I’ve worked it out with the old Curmudgeon myself.”

“Should I change?”

Tom shakes his head. “No. You’re perfect for where we’re going.”

I wonder at that. I look like the muddier incarnation of a fisherman, but we pile into the front of Hobb’s ancient lorry and rattle down the lane into town.

Hardwick isn’t exactly a thriving metropolis. If it weren’t for the nearness of both St. Agatha’s and St. Joseph’s, it’d just be another village in farm country. But the schools have guaranteed it a railway station with a platform and tiny depot, and there’s even a sort of cinema, with folding chairs and a bedsheet for a screen. Besides that, Hardwick has a chemist and a dry goods shop, a post office and a church, and not much else.

But today is market day, and on market day Hardwick comes alive.

There are swarms of people in the streets, and Hobb has to slow his lorry. We abandon it and walk long before we reach the center of town. Temporary pens are set up for geese and sheep, there are crates of flapping ducks and chickens, and wooden stands have sprouted seemingly out of the ground, peddling hot cross buns and pasties, piping hot chestnuts and paper cups of steaming cider. Through the crowd, I catch a brief glimpse of Georgie and Max, walking arm in arm and chatting companionably with each otheras they step into the post office.

“Don’t mind me,” Hobb says, waggling his eyebrows at Tom in a mysterious fashion. “I’m just off to make a few arrangements.”

He disappears and I’m left standing with Tom on a busy, cobbled street in the cold October rain. Tom offers his arm. I take it, and we amble through the market day hubbub together, pointing out the best rams and funny-looking ducks with white topknots. All that I know comes from the Woodlands—from the time I spent with Dorien, and I miss the old stonewarden bitterly. Tom seems very knowledgeable for a St. Joseph’s boy, and then I remember that he’s mentioned growing up on a Yorkshire farm.

“Fancy a bite?” he asks, and I do. I’m ravenous after the morning’s work in the rain.

Tom buys hot pasties and we eat them so quickly I burn my tongue. Then I buy him a sack of toasted chestnuts because I’ve seen him eat and I know he can’t possibly be filled up after a single pasty. We share them out, sitting on a bench and watching people until Hobb reappears.

“All ready.”

Tom stands and holds out a hand. I take it—my nettle burns have healed nicely, fading to faint pink—but once I’m on my feet, he doesn’t let go. For a moment, I’m not sure what to do. My heart’s in my throat and I’m tempted to pull away, but instead I look up at Tom. His eyes are fixed on Hobb and he’s so pointedly trying not to care about our clasped hands that I know he cares a great deal. My stomach turns over at the sight of his familiar face, freckles standing out against autumn-pale skin, and I think I’d do almostanything to keep from hurting him.

Because he’s only ever seen me in this world, after the Woodlands. I know myself for a sad shadow of who I used to be, a girl who wakes up each morning with barely enough strength to hold herself together. That’s the only Evelyn he’s known, and yet he still sees something in me that keeps him coming back.

So I hold his hand tightly as we follow Hobb through the crowd. Rain drips down my nose, and the last time I felt like this—entirely present, entirely here, without even having to try—I was on the beach below the palace, and though I didn’t know it, it was our very last day in the Woodlands.

Hobb stops at a wide pen holding a half dozen placid milk cows. “Pick one out, Miss Evelyn. Cook says now the back field’s cleared, we may as well put it to use and spare the kitchen help a few trips to market.”

I clasp my hands together in excitement and can’t stop grinning as I turn to the cattle. They’re all lovely. There’s a rangy Friesian and a red-and-white-spotted Guernsey with a long, mournful face. But I can’t help myself when a fawn-colored Jersey comes over looking for treats, begging with her melting dark eyes. There’s a sturdy calf with her, and while Hobb haggles with the farmer, Tom and I scratch the heifer’s forehead.

“What’re you doing over Christmas?” I ask. “Home for the holidays?”