Page 45 of The Unknown Birds

Rook turned his attention to his tea. “Sometimes,” he answered with a little frown. “I was commissioned last year to write a piece for the twentieth anniversary of the Armistice.”

“I’d dearly love to hear it,” Ash said, though she wasn’t sure she could bear to.

“If I’m ever happy with how it turned out, you’ll be the first to know,” he said, gazing at her through hooded eyes.

“It must be difficult to write music no one’s ever heard before,” her mother said, steering the conversation back into safe waters. “You must be very clever.”

“I don’t know about that. If I were, perhaps I’d have finished it to my satisfaction.”

“Is any great artist ever truly satisfied with their work?” Frau Wintter wondered.

“I’d say that’s more a question for you.” Rook turned to Ash, all charm and grace.

“Is it?” her mother asked.

Rook held her gaze.

“Plenty of poems were jotted in the cramped spaces between shellings. Some were likely written in the doldrums with ample refinement, but many poets were cut down before their time, leaving only a draft they might well be ashamed to see in print. One can only hope they’d be pleased.”

“Surely they must know their families are proud, or they wouldn’t have published their work,” Frau Wintter said.

“Of course,” Ash agreed, sharing an amused smile with Rook. “Though I’m not sure it’s quite the same thing.”

She couldn’t guess whether her poets were satisfied. She’d been happy enough with what she’d once written herself, though it was private, never meant for publication. But she was more interested in Rook’s composition. The perfectionist musician was a side of him she hadn’t met during the war, but it felt right. It was a side of him she’d be lucky to know better now, and she was dying to hear anything he’d composed.

After tea, Rook stayed to help with the washing up.

“Come back any time, Alex,” her mother told him, patting his arm before Ash walked him to the door.

As lost for words as ever, she managed only to squeeze his hand and say, “I’ll see you soon?”

He nodded.

“Fly safe, Rook,” she told him.

A small smile tugged at his lips. He nodded once more and told her, “That’s my line.”

“Perhaps it should’ve been mine. You could never help but fly true.”

“True as steel,” he agreed.

“True as Troilus,” she replied.

“I think he’s sweet on you,” her mother said, the moment the door was locked behind him.

“He’s not sweet on me, Mum,” Ash protested like she was seventeen instead of forty.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed before sharing a knowing look with Frau Wintter. “But you’re sweet on him?”

“I…” And what could she say? She’d been sweet on him once? Could have been? It was all so very long ago.

“Who is he?” her mother asked. “Someone from the war?”

“Someone? Everyone. He was…” She shook her head. How could she sum up what Alex Rook had meant to her? Her favorite person? Her very best friend? The words all seemed too small to hold the multitudes she felt for him.

“Zwillingsseele.” Frau Wintter nodded sagely. Kindred soul.

And Ashley thought she’d never heard anything more apt. “Zwillingsseele,” she agreed.