Page 40 of The Light Between Worlds

The Harpers aren’t carefree. They’ve known trouble. And they can’t be as comfortable as they seem, not with the thistle of grief lodged in each of their hearts, chafing when any one of them moves the wrong way. But somehow, in spite of all this, they laugh. They love. They carry on.

I sit down on one of the benches drawn up to the long harvest table and watch, hungry to learn the trick of happiness.

Meg elbows Tom in the ribs after the first flurry of greetings and Christmas catch-up has subsided. She jerks her head in my direction and asks him something. He turns to me and smiles, a quiet, private sort of smile that’s mostly in his eyes. To think I’ve gone through both my lives not knowing I wanted to be on the receiving end of a smile like that.

Meg says something else and crosses the kitchen, settling down on the bench beside me. She sits with her trousered legs stretched out, elbows behind her on the tabletop.

“I told him you look like a wild bird, perched there,” she says, without the bother of introductions. “Just sitting and watching, not sure yet if you’re going to take flight or if you trust us. And he told me that I’m quite right, but that like any wild thing, you’ve got to make up your own mind and we can’t force you to choose us. So I suppose, given the circumstances, I should have approached rathermore slowly, and with a handful of seeds.”

She says that last so drily and with such a serious face that I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me. Meg’s seriousness melts away into a pleased expression, and she shoots a smug look at Tom.

I am thawing in this overheated, crowded kitchen. I can feel my winter melting into spring.

Across the kitchen, Annie retrieves her Christmas gift for Tom and he proudly pulls on the jumper, this one patterned with what might be leaves, but might also be sailboats. After a moment he tucks it back in the box and rolls up his shirtsleeves. I catch myself thinking that he’s perfect, every bit of him, even his ears that stick out a little.

Annie joins us and sits down on my other side, looping her arm through mine. Tom stands before the three of us, arms crossed, wearing a ridiculous grin. There’s happiness rolling off him in waves, and I don’t know if it’s being home or my presence or just holiday euphoria.

“Alright, Evie?” he asks, and it’s the first time he’s used the nickname. “You look like a rose among thorns.”

Meg rolls her eyes and Annie smiles, oblivious to the joke. My face grows even hotter, but Mrs. Harper saves me, turning from the range and giving one of Tom’s hands a swat with her wooden spoon. “Don’t make a fool of yourself,” she chides. “The girl won’t like you any the better for it. Plain talk for plain folk. Evelyn, love, would you and Annie set the table together? She knows where everything is—if she fetches, you can lay it all out. Meg, wash your hands—there’s half a potato field under those nails.”

There is magic in the way that suddenly I’ve been folded into thefamily without pleasantries or awkward small talk. I’m just here, as if that’s the way things have always been. I set the table and we eat Mrs. Harper’s excellent roast dinner, Meg and Mrs. Harper and Tom chattering at each other like magpies while Mr. Harper, Annie, and I listen and laugh. I’m breathless by bedtime, with goodwill and belonging and hope.

29

MR. HARPER AND MEG ARE LONG GONE BY THE TIME Iget down to the kitchen the following morning. Annie’s out, too—off to visit a friend in the village. So it’s just Tom and Mrs. Harper and myself, which makes for a quieter breakfast than our dinner the night before.

“Now then, Miss Evelyn,” says Mrs. Harper as I take a seat and help myself to tea and a muffin. “Let me look at you.”

She fixes her green eyes on me and I meet her gaze hesitantly, not sure what she’ll see. I knew where I fit once, when I walked free and glad in the Great Wood. Now I’m just out-of-place Evelyn Hapwell in a skirt and cardigan, hair pulled back into a knot because I can’t be bothered with a permanent. Or at least, that’s the outside part of me. Even I’m not quite sure how the inside looks.

But Mrs. Harper seems to be satisfied with the inside Evelyn, because that’s who she’s looking at, with her stare that cuts straight to my core. After a moment, she nods and butters a slice of toast. “You be good to her, Tom. She’s got a gentle heart.”

That’s just what Alfreya used to tell me about Philippa, onnights when I’d creep down to the kitchen to complain about how fussy or strict my sister could be.

Oh, Phil, I miss you, nearly as much as I miss home.

I swallow a mouthful of tea to steady myself. I will stop regretting. I will stop looking back. I will look forward and be glad. I will be the gladdest thing under the sun.

“What have the two of you got planned for the day?” Mrs. Harper pushes her chair back and brushes crumbs from her ample skirt.

“I thought I’d take Ev over to Whitcomb Manor and show her the glasshouse,” says Tom. “If she doesn’t mind a walk.”

He gives me a questioning look and I shake my head. “No, I’d love a walk.”

“Then that’s what we’re doing.” Tom gathers up his plate and silverware and takes them to the sink.

The day is fine, full of thin sunshine that glances off icicles but isn’t quite strong enough to melt the hoarfrost cloaking the dales. We stump down the lane in boots and coats and mittens, cheeks red and breath puffing out in clouds, until we come to an enormous wrought-iron gate beyond which a graveled drive curves through well-kept parkland.

Tom stops in front of the gate and fumbles with the latch. The ironwork is cleverly crafted into a woodland scene, and stags hide among the metal trees. I will my heart to beat steadily, my stomach to stay calm. It’s just a gate in the English countryside, made in a common enough pattern.

We pass through and the hedgerows along the road give way to manicured hills and well-tended woods. There’s a small lake with afountain at the center, shut off in winter, and I try desperately not to notice that the fountain is a stag, too, head thrown back so water will pipe out of his throat. The country house itself stands on the lakeshore, looking down at its own mellow stone reflection. It’s a peaceful place, a place I might like if it wasn’t for the bronze stags that guard the front door.

Tom leads me around back to the glasshouse and I keep as close as I can without crowding. I barely notice a carefully tended kitchen garden with winter crops laid in the beds and cold frames stuffed with greens. The glasshouse glitters in the sun before us and I follow Tom as he ducks inside.

Suddenly, it’s as if winter’s never been.

The air inside is summer-warm. A potbellied stove in one corner throws out heat, but a quantity of pans laid out on top of it bubble and steam, keeping the air moist, almost tropical. The sweet smell of lemon blossoms mingles with the sharper scents of potted herbs: tarragon, basil, rosemary. It’s magic, this bit of summer in late December. I brush one finger against the velvety petals of an orchid and smile.