Page 77 of The Light Between Worlds

She moves to shut the door and I freeze, heart pounding in my ears, stomach a knot of pain. It’s Jack who holds up a hand to stop her.

“This is Philippa Hapwell,” he explains. “Evelyn’s sister. She was hoping for a word with your family.”

“Oh.” The girl manages to infuse the single syllable with eighteen different meanings, then turns and shouts over her shoulder. “Mum, put the kettle on! Dad, take your coat off, and Annie fetch Tom—Ev’s sister’s come by, so we’re staying in.”

“Oh no, please don’t trouble yourselves,” I beg. “We can come back later. It’s really alright.”

“Nonsense.” The girl reaches out and pulls Jack and me inside before I can protest again.

We find ourselves in an enormous farmhouse kitchen, with flagstone floors and a long harvest table off to one side. Mrs. Harper, who’s got a bit of grey threaded through her red hair, is setting a kettle on the wood-fired range. There arethingseverywhere—cast-iron pots and pans and dried onions and garlic hanging from the ceiling beams, bottles and potted plants and picture frames on the windowsills, coats on hooks along the wall, but somehow it doesn’t seem crowded, just homey and comfortable.

“Tea?” Mrs. Harper calls over to us, and I press closer to Jack, because I can just see Evelyn here, sitting at one of the benches drawn up to the table. She’d have her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, and take in the easy way this family has, letting it wash over her like waves.

“Yes, please,” I murmur.

“I’m Meg,” the young woman tells us. “I’m sure Tom’s who you really want to see, and he’ll be in shortly—Annie’s gone to get him from the barn. We’re so terribly sorry for everything, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

Mrs. Harper turns to us as the kettle begins to steam. “Please don’t be shy. Take a seat and make yourselves comfortable. Meg, don’t just chatter at them—fetch a plate of biscuits.”

Meg disappears into what I’d imagine is a pantry, and with a sudden rush of damp air, a small girl and a gangly, ginger-haired boy step in from the outdoors. The child, Annie, clings to her brother’s hand and looks up at him uncertainly, as if she’s not sure how he’ll take our sudden intrusion into the Harper household.

And it’s true Tom Harper looks acutely unhappy to find us in his kitchen. He pulls away from Annie and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“Well,” he mumbles, “what is it you want?”

Mrs. Harper sets a tray down with a clatter. “Thomas Albert Harper, you’ll mind your manners, or so help me—”

“Sorry, Mum.” Tom hunches his shoulders. “I already spoke to the Yard, is all, so I don’t know why they’ve come.”

He lowers himself onto a bench and I follow suit, only dimly aware of Jack crossing the kitchen and saying something civil to Mrs. Harper before making himself useful setting out tea things on the tray.

“How was she?” I ask Tom quietly. “That’s all I want to know—what happened when she came here over Christmas, if she was happy. I’d give anything to hear she was happy.”

Tom goes pale beneath his freckles and runs a hand through his hair. “And I wish I could tell you so, but she was a disaster. She kept falling apart, and I kept trying to put her back together, but I couldn’t manage it.”

I shake my head, and the constant guilt I carry is an iron band inside me. “You should never have had to try.”

Tom glances up at his mother and sisters, and at Jack. “Can I say something to you? In private? If you’ve come all this way, I think you ought to hear it.”

“Of course.”

“Mum, we’re stepping out to the barn,” he says, and Mrs. Harper nods. Jack gives me a questioning look, and I shrug in response.

The cobbled farmyard is slick with rain and I take careful steps,though I’ve worn my most sensible pair of shoes. Inside the barn the air is sweet and dusty with the smell of hay. A row of placid dairy cows chew their cud in the gloom. Tom and I stop just inside the barn door, but leave it open for the light.

“There’s no gentle way of saying this,” Tom tells me, and there’s agony written across his features. “But it’s my fault your sister’s gone. I suppose you know I was the last to see her. If I’d paid closer attention, or said something differently, she might still be here.”

He sits down on a row of hay bales pushed up against the wall, but I stay on my feet, rooted to the spot. I know this boy’s pain. I’ve held it close and nursed it through many a long night. It is a bitter thorn to carry through life, lodged in the secret places of your soul. And I cannot watch someone else do penance for sins that were mine alone. I won’t.

I must be who I was in the Woodlands now, before I went astray. I summon every bit of confidence and pride I’ve ever had in myself, and hold them tight enough that they sink into my very skin and bones. Then I hold out a hand to Tom, which he takes before looking up at me, his plain face guileless and anguished.

“Tom Harper, this was never your fault.” The words come out clearly, ringing bell-like in the quiet of the barn. If there was ever any power in my words and wit, I draw upon it now, to infuse the pardon I’m offering with immutable truth. “Her fate wasn’t your burden, I promise you that.Ishould have been here—I was meant to look after her, and the only failing is mine. Do you understand? Look at me—do you really think you could have taken my place?”

He blinks. I may be wearing a wrinkled traveling suit, with my hair pulled back and not a bit of makeup to shield me from the world, but memories of magic sing from my heart through my veins.

“I don’t know.” Tom stumbles over the words. “But I ought to have done something. Ought to have seen what she meant to do.”