Page 80 of The Light Between Worlds

But there were three of us to manage before, and now there’s only two.

I try not to think, try not to feel, as we get into a cab and drive through the London streets, then step out and down into a dim waiting area that smells of unpleasant chemicals—not at all like the solvent and cleaners and paint of the Gallery.

Inspector Singh is there, and I’m weak with relief that it’s him and not Dawes. He leads us along a narrow corridor to another room, where there’s a steel table holding something underneath a sheet.

Jamie’s white as death beside me.

“I can’t—” He chokes. “Where’s the toilet?”

Inspector Singh points down a hall and my brother hurries away.

I’m left alone, in this room full of flat fluorescent light, with the inspector and the shape of a body that might be Ev. Letting out a quavering breath, I step forward.

“Show her to me.”

“Don’t you want to wait for your brother, Miss?” Inspector Singh’s eyes are sympathetic.

“No. Show her to me.”

We used to sit in the back garden and make daisy chains, before the war. Then when war came and we were sent away from home, the two of us started the journey hand in hand. Evelyn wasstill holding tight to me on that dark and deadly night, when Cervus called us away to the Woodlands. There she was love and light and laughter, everything beautiful and wild, and I did whatever I could to shield her from hardship.

Then at home, when her light flickered and dimmed, when sometimes it seemed like the last spark would go out, I could always find ways to rekindle her fire.

Oh, Evelyn, my heart.

Inspector Singh pulls back the sheet.

When Jamie comes out of the toilet, looking peaked, I’m waiting by the door.

“Let’s go,” I say flatly. “It wasn’t her.”

I start down the hall but he doesn’t follow. “Philippa, wait. Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I snap, and round on him. “Yes, I’m sure. It looked a bit like her, as much as it could, but it was someone else.”

Jamie’s not giving in. “Do you think I should look, just to be certain? I know you don’t want it to be her—”

“It’s not her!” I’m shouting now, because if I don’t shout, I’ll sob. “She had a scar, a long one, from cutting herself open one night at school because she wanted to look the way she did when we werethere. I stitched it together myself, Jamie, because if the staff had found out, they’d have sent her away, to one of those terrible places for people who can’t cope. So don’t suggest, don’t suggest for aninstant, that I’m not certain the poor dead girl in there wasn’t Ev.”

I turn and sweep out of the door and there’s a bus just stopping. I don’t care where it goes so I climb onboard, torn to pieces now I’ve seen how a drowned girl looks, and endlessly repenting for every mistake I’ve ever made.

I’m sorry, Evelyn.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

57

THE GALLERY’S SHUT BY THE TIME I GET BACK, BUTAlbright opens up after some persistent knocking. I go straight to Presswick’s office, shed my sweater, and begin feverishly fair copying the day’s stack of paperwork. Thinking now would be a disaster.

It’s ages before I notice the incongruous, crackling sound of a gramophone playing jazz. The only thing I’m used to hearing in the Gallery after hours is Albright’s tuneless whistling. Drawn to the music like metal to a magnet, I leave my work to slip down the hallway and up the stairs. The door to the restoration studio is open, letting light spill out, and I peer in.

Among the cupboards and lockers that hold the restorers’ supplies, Jack’s seated with his back to the wall, a book in one hand and a bottle of lager in the other. His legs are stretched out in front of him, though on one side his trousers are flat and empty below the knee—sure of privacy, he’s set both his cane and his prosthetic off to one side.

I knock, gently, not wanting to startle him. “May I come in?”