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Emmie clung to his hand. It was so strange, to be able to hold him but not see him, to feel the shape of his palm, the calluses on his fingers, as if she were learning the geography of him one small isthmus at a time.
“I left your letters in Grécourt. They were all I had of you and I left them.”
“They were only paper and ink. The words—the thoughts—whatever was in them of any value—you have already. It all amounted to just one thing, anyway.”
“Yes?” The bombs were still falling outside; there were roughly forty other wounded men packed around them, nurses navigating as best they could in the dark; but right now there was nothing in the world but Will, here, with her, the rasp of his breath, the feel of his fingers around hers.
“I love you,” he said in his beautiful voice, scratchy now, faint, but still his. “Whatever happens, wherever we go. In this world or the next.”
“You’re not going to any other world but this,” said Emmie fiercely, swiping away tears with her free hand and giving an entirely inelegant sniff. “Julia said it was a perfectly incompetent shell and missed anything that mattered. So you’re not allowed to go all elegiac on me.”
“‘A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning’?” he managed.
“Yes, Kate gave me your message about the compass.” Emmie’s throat was so thick with emotion she could hardly get the words out. “It’s all very romantic, but you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not forbidding mourning. I’m forbidding dying. I simply won’t have it. You’re not allowed.”
He gave a shaky laugh that turned into a gasp of pain. “I’ll do my best.”
The sirens were wailing for all they were worth. Some of the men were crying, others praying. Another bomb crashed down, closer now. Emmie could hear glass shattering and someone screaming, screaming and screaming, alarmingly close.
Will pressed something into her hand, something hard and round and cool. “This is my signet. If I promise to try not to die, will you promise to wear it? I’d go down on one knee, but since I’m already prone . . .”
Emmie leaned over and kissed him. She didn’t quite get the right part of his mouth, but they got that sorted out rather quickly. She couldn’t embrace him because she didn’t want to tear his stitches, and they both reeked rather strongly of sweat and blood, but she found that didn’t matter in the slightest.
“Emmie.” Kate squeezed her shoulder. “Emmie, I’m so sorry, but we have to go.”
“We’re engaged,” Emmie said, the words feeling very small in the darkness. Will’s ring was loose on her finger. “For real this time.”
“Congratulations.” Emmie couldn’t see Kate, but she could feel the hem of her uniform skirt swishing back and forth, a clear sign of anxiety. “I mean it, I do. I’m very happy for you both. But we’re all being evacuated. Now.”
“I don’t understand.” Emmie sat back on her knees, clenching her hand around Will’s ring to keep it from falling off. It was too loose. She would have to wrap string under it to keep it on, or maybe hang it on a chain around her neck. “What happened?”
“Part of the hospital is gone.” Kate was trying to sound calm and businesslike, but Emmie could hear the panic under it. “They want us to get our things from the hotel. It’s not safe in Beauvais anymore. You’re being evacuated too, Captain DeWitt, but I’m not sure where.”
“Will . . .” Emmie stared down at the dim shape on the stretcher. It seemed such a cruel trick to not even be able to see him, to see his face before they were parted again.
“I’m sorry,” said Kate. “I’m so sorry.”
Behind them, Emmie could hear people bustling about, stretchers being lifted, men moaning, Dr. Clare protesting about something.
Will squeezed her hand, and then, very deliberately, let it go.
“Go,” he said. “Be safe. I’ll find you, wherever you are. Remember? The compass.”
“The points always come together again.” Emmie leaned over and kissed him, one last time, not caring who saw, knowing Kate would understand. “When the war ends, come find me at Grécourt.”
Epilogue
May 1919
Grécourt, France
Dear Everyone at Home,
We’ve been busy as clams since we got back to Grécourt in January. Or do I mean happy as clams? We’ve been working pretty much dawn to dusk getting everything up and running again. You should have seen the havoc those Boche wreaked on our poor old barracks—it’s as if they didn’t think they did the job properly the first time! But this time, at least, we have plenty of supplies and men to help us. All those French soldiers home from the war, and the men and women who were away avec les Boches have been filtering back home, and they’ve been building and plowing just as hard as they can—we’ve even got a bunch of German prisoners of war working for us, which is a little unnerving, although they’re sweet as lambs, most of them. I kept thinking they’d have spikes growing out of their heads and teeth like the wolf in Red Riding Hood, but they’re pretty much normal boys and bewildered as can be.
Kate claims she still can’t get used to being called director, which is nonsense, since she was pretty much director anyway, even when she wasn’t. Mrs. Barrett sends love and packages from home. Her husband was sent back home to the States after the armistice in November, so she felt she had to resign and go back with him, but she says she’ll always be with us in spirit and as long as the mails keep delivering. There are only four of us Old Contemptibles left—Florence Lewes is having a ball with chickens and cows, Emmie Van Alden is in charge of social work, Julia Pruyn is our medical department, and you’d laugh to see me in charge of the store, peddling away like anything. I’ve been setting up shops in all the villages and helping the locals to stock them.
The new girls are a good lot, even if they do keep asking us to tell stories about the early days at Grécourt and what it was like to be here under fire, which makes me feel like the Ancient Someone-or-Other from that poem.
