Page 56 of The Light Between Worlds

“Oh. Yes. I’d forgot about you.Woman Bathing in a Stream. Here—you can fair copy these letters for now.”

I glance down at the stack of untidy pages she pushes toward me. “Have you got a typewriter?”

Presswick looks up abruptly. “Is there something wrong with your handwriting?”

“No,” I assure her. “It’s just that a typewriter would be much faster.”

Presswick scoffs. “Nasty machines, all those buttons and noises, and the typeface is an affront to one’s artistic sensibilities. Copying the letters out neatly by hand will be fine, thank you.”

“What exactly does this job entail?” I ask before she can turn back to her work.

“I have no idea.” Presswick waves a dismissive hand in the air. “But Director Hendy’s been telling me I need an assistant since the war ended—ever since the Conservation Department first came into being—and all the candidates he’s sent for me to interview were absolutely unsuitable.”

I watch her closely, trying to sort out what it was about our conversation that convinced this odd woman to hire me. “What makes me suitable when they weren’t?”

Presswick peers at me over her reading glasses. “I suspect you’re a careful person—not the sort who rushes into decisions or does things heedlessly. That’s the impression I got on Saturday, at any rate. If it turns out I’m wrong, which I seldom am, I’ll just sack you.”

“That seems fair enough,” I say, and begin copying the first of Presswick’s letters. It’s not long before I’m lost in a new sort of politics, learning the intricacies of the Gallery’s world as I write.

My head is still full of solvents and inpainting and Old Masters when I arrive home and find Jamie’s bags sitting by the door.

39

I HAD HOPED, VAINLY, THAT IT WAS THE WAR GIVINGEvelyn such a hard time, and that once it ended things would be better. But now, standing all together in the National Gallery a month after V-E Day and a year and a half after the Woodlands, I realize I was wrong.

The Gallery is mobbed. Everyone wants a glimpse of the Old Masters, brought back from their wartime sojourn in a Welsh cave. I turn away from the front counter and see Ev standing alone, in a bubble of solitude she seems to take with her wherever she goes. Mum and Dad are a few feet away, talking in low tones and occasionally glancing at Ev. They’re talking about her, of course, and when I bring our tickets over, Mum pulls me aside.

“Philippa, what went on at school this year? Your sister doesn’t seem herself.”

I bite my lip and swallow. If I had a sixpence for every time I’ve been asked what happened to Evelyn—first it was Max. Then several more teachers, and finally the Curmudgeon herself. After that it was our school nurse, and a doctor from Hardwick who never could find anything wrong.

And here’s Mum asking me the same question I can never answer. But really, what would we say if we wanted to speak up? No one would believe our story. They already whisper things about Evelyn, about her health. If Jamie and I were to come forward with tales of a mysterious country where we spent years as only a moment passed by in a bomb shelter, the same shadows of madness folk cast upon Ev would fall on us, too.

“I expect it’s just difficult for her to be back in London.” I pat Mum on the shoulder. “It’s not you or Dad, of course, it’s just with all the rubble the city’s not a very cheerful place.”

I slip away and take Ev by the arm, steering her through the Gallery until we find what I’m looking for. Evelyn’s docile and uninterested beside me until we step up to the painting.

It’s a Rembrandt. I’ve seen it in art books before, but never in person. The simple background, the single female figure stepping further into the stream—it’s an elegant image, understated and intimate. There’s a confidence to the woman in the painting, and she immediately gives an impression that she knows more than she’ll ever say.

Beside me, Ev leans forward and her lips part.

“Look at her,” she whispers, and I can barely hear her over the murmur of the holiday crowds. “She’s so still, on the inside. She knows exactly who she is, and where she belongs.”

We stay and look at the bather for as long as we can before carrying on. When we walk away, I see an unguarded smile on Evelyn’s face.

Though it’s midsummer, I’ve been frozen inside. But I can feel myself thaw in the afterglow of that smile. Things will get better now. They will.

They must.

40

I STAND IN THE FRONT HALL WITH MY HANDS IN MYsweater pockets and try not to feel lost because my brother’s leaving.

“I’ve got to get back to school,” Jamie says, an apology in his tone. “If you need anything, Philippa, just ring. Or come up on a weekend. Oxford’s not far. And I don’t think you’ll be bothered much by the Yard, so you needn’t worry on that count.”

“Don’t fuss.” I smile, though I’m wretched over Jamie going. “I’ve already got a job, actually, and Mum and Dad...”

My voice trails off. The truth is, Jamie and I haven’t been very good children, so wrapped up in our worries about the Woodlands and Ev and each other, so intent on never letting our shared secret slip, that we didn’t realize until it was too late how our complete autonomy cut our parents out. We lead parallel lives now, and I’m not sure how to bridge the gap between us. I’m not even sure anyone wants that. The thread that binds us together is Evelyn’s absence, and it’s a foundation that I, for one, have no interest in building on.