Page 9 of The Unknown Birds

“That’s… unusual, Private Rook.”

“German snipers work alone, sir.”

Davies raised his eyebrows, but Ashley couldn’t decide whether he was surprised by the proclamation or by Rook’s cheek.

“Suit yourself,” he said, then waved a hand towards TomTom and Ash. “While you may prefer to work alone, I shall ask you to take Private Ashley here under your wing. Bit of tutoring on the art of the Lee-Enfield.”

Ashley’s heart all but stopped as Rook closed his eyes, but when he opened them a second later his reply was a curt, “Of course, sir.”

“Excellent. Well, we’ve Brigade Sports coming up, and I believe in the meantime Sergeant Major Chapman and Lieutenant Napier have planned a bit of shooting practice for us all this afternoon. Rook will have you shipshape in no time, Ashley.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Private Rook, I know I don’t need to remind you to have a proper shave so your gas mask will fit.”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Ash didn’t know whether to be mortified or delighted by the order to train with the sullen sniper. She only knew she was relieved for the excuse to trail along behind him like a magnet on a string.

Chapter 4

London, January 1939

Then, scanning all the o’ercrowded mass, should you

Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,

It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.

—Charles Hamilton Sorley

When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead

Professor Richards from the History Department introduced Ashley and she stepped behind the over-bright podium. From the corner of her eye, she felt sure she’d glimpsed the captain with his soft golden hair, clapping graceful hands at her approach. Another familiar ghost slouched near the back sporting TomTom’s tawny pompadour and glasses, but when she took a second look, he was merely a stranger in a cap, and the ghost of Captain Davies had disappeared.

Shaken but not deterred, Ash focused on the poems and the soldiers who had written them. Despite the chilly air that seemed to hum with pregnant silence, she settled into the rhythm of her lecture, pausing where she usually paused, drawing the listeners in before continuing on. Finally, she looked up to face her captive crowd, but there was only one pair of eyes inside the room—one pair in all the world—staring back at her like a single candle in a dark, cold church.

Like a moth drawn to the flame of that solitary candle, her gaze was pulled towards his, the ghost in the back of the room: Alex Rook. His penetrating grey eyes seemed just as frozen as hers, his pale expression one of bewilderment, but his beautiful face was creased with lines the photograph in her memory could only hint at.

Since when did Ashley’s ghosts age alongside her? Till now they had always been trapped in eternal youth.

His mouth quirked up on the left, even as his brows met in consternation, each micro expression so painfully familiar and so long past.

Ashley stumbled through the rest of the poems, no longer pausing where she usually paused, no longer aware of a word she was saying as she studied her ghost, unable to force herself to look away.

Alex Rook.

The boy who saved her.

The boy who loved her like a brother and maybe something more, who taught her how to make herself be brave.

Alex Rook—now very much a man.

His once black hair was long—longer than he’d been allowed to wear it in the trenches—combed straighter than she’d ever imagined possible, though errant, greying curls still hinted at resistance from his hairline.

He wore a simple coat, not the khaki wool of the army but black and more finely cut, and for a moment he held his hand to his chest as though his heart or lungs were giving out.