Page 102 of Two Wars and a Wedding

Betsy looked down. Her hem was damp and draggled. Behind her, where she had walked, dark footprints marred the carpet.

And wasn’t that just appropriate?

She started to shake and couldn’t have said whether she was laughing or crying or both. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s no matter,” said the nurse soothingly. “Someone will brush it right off.”

They’d brushed Betsy right off. Like mud on a carpet. Let it dry and then sweep it away with a stiff brush.

“There’s mail for you,” the nurse said coaxingly as she scrubbed Betsy’s dirty feet and tucked her into a clean day dress and neatly pinned her hair. They all tried so hard. Betsy wished she could be more of a credit to them. “Mail from America.”

“Thank you,” said Betsy numbly. Outside, the courtyard was empty. The baroness’s cortège had departed. They were gone, truly gone.

“I’ll leave you to read it,” the nurse said, and gave Betsy’s shoulder a little pat.

The letter from America sat on the writing desk she wasn’t supposed to use for writing.

Probably something from Alex. Disbursements from her trust. Invitations to speak at Lavinia’s DAR meeting about My Experience Nursing in Greece. Ever since she’d been awarded a medal by Queen Olga—in absentia, but royal recognition was still royal recognition—she’d become a Credit to the Family, at least on paper. It must be driving Alex utterly mad, which was something at least.

Betsy seated herself, slowly, awkwardly. Her limbs felt like they didn’t quite belong to her, the outward detritus of a soul that had died. She wasn’t quite sure why she was still here. In Switzerland. In the world.

The letter was a confusion of stamps and crossed-out addresses and the odd splash of mud. Betsy recognized Aikaterini’s hand overwriting the original address.

No letter openers. They were on the forbidden list. Listlessly, Betsy pried the envelope open—and sat up very straight, her mouth dry, her hands shaking. She felt as if she’d been zapped by lightning, electricity zinging from the top of her head straight down to her toes, waking up bits of her that had been numb for months.

She knew that writing, that firm, angular writing. No colored inks for Ava. No curlicues and flourishes. She wrote a strong, dark hand. But the words. Betsy stared and stared but the words wouldn’t change.

I had thought it best you hear from me before you read it in the Smith College Monthly. Now that our country has officially declared war on Spain (yes, I know you never read the papers: we’re at war with Spain, in case you haven’t noticed, which you probably haven’t), the New York Red Cross has put out a call for volunteer nurses.

I have volunteered.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

She couldn’t let Ava go. She couldn’t. Frantically, Betsy flipped open the torn envelope, searching for dates beneath the confusion of stamps. April. She’d sent it in April. It was . . . oh goodness, what was the date? May. It was May. May something. The date hadn’t seemed important before, but it was now, vitally.

She had to stop Ava. She had to stop Ava before she could get to Cuba.

Betsy scrabbled through the desk, finding some overlooked paper, a pen with a broken nib, some half-dried ink. It would serve. She scribbled her message as fast as she could, the jagged edge of the pen biting through the paper, the ink barely showing in spots. But it was legible, just.

But what if it didn’t reach her in time?

Betsy shoved back the chair hard enough that it toppled over. Her coat. Her shoes. Where were they? Passport. She would need her passport. Passport and money. The rest she could buy if she had to.

“I heard a crash.” The poor nurse skittered into the doorway.

The desk chair lay on its back on the floor. Had she done that? Betsy dismissed it as immaterial.

Already, Betsy was plotting out her course. Through the mountains to Zurich. What was the nearest port? Ostend, perhaps. Someone in Zurich would know. She could send telegrams and make arrangements in Zurich.

“I need my passport,” she told the nurse. “My passport and my purse. And whatever clothes I brought with me. Whatever can fit in a carpetbag. I’m only taking what I can carry.”

“But the doctor—”

“Has no say in the matter.” Betsy squared her shoulders and looked the nurse in the eye, feeling like she was fully awake for the first time in months. “I came here for a rest and I’ve rested. I’m done resting.”

Betsy could feel the energy coursing through her, so much energy she could barely contain it. She’d wondered why she was still alive. This was why she was still alive. To sacrifice herself in Ava’s place. It was all very much like a Greek tragedy.

Betsy wondered if her chorus would be made of nurses.