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I feel hope begin to stir in my stomach, though I wish it would not.

* * *

Late that night I walk to Dr. Nadeau’s house. I could have driven but I know petrol is rationed now, so I imagine Henri wants to save it for his wife and the baby. I try to ignore the surge of irritation I feel at that thought.

Dr. Nadeau’s office is in the back of his home, so I climb the fence and then peek in the window. I could time travel inside, but I’d rather not get caught in here naked if I don’t have to.

I push at the window and it slides open. The mere idea of breaking into a home like this would have terrified me before. Now I just feel relieved that it’s an option. It takes me no time at all to find some penicillin—the idiot didn’t even take it out of his medical bag. How ill might Henri have gotten if I hadn’t come for this? Would Nadeau have let him die, simply so he could hoard the drug for himself? I feel a small throb at my temples. Nadeau deserves to be punished for that lie, for his selfishness. My hand closes hard around the two bottles and syringe I’m taking. He’s lucky I have other places to be right now, and he’s lucky I’m leaving soon. I have a feeling that, if I stayed in 1939, this wouldn’t be the last time he pissed me off.

When I return to the farm, Henri is sitting on the front steps, waiting in the moonlight. He rises when I walk up, his jaw clenched tight. “Where did you go?” he demands. “I was worried sick.”

“Worried about what?” I snap. “That I might go fuck someone else the moment your back was turned? No, Henri. Only you do that.”

He reaches for me and I find myself spun, pressed tight to his chest. He’s holding my arms tighter than he should and I see that thing in his eyes again—pain and hunger and a touch of madness, as if he no longer cares what happens. I understand all of it. It’s how I feel most of my day.

“I thought you might have left.”

We’re so close, closer than we’ve been since I arrived. His eyes flicker to my mouth and I feel that glance all the way to my bones. I want him. And I’ve missed him so much. Why can’t I just have a little of what I came here for?

He swallows, everything in him taut and desperate, the cords of his neck straining as if he’s lifting an impossible weight. And then he releases me.

“I got you penicillin,” I say, stifling a disappointment so vast it feels like it could knock me off my feet. I pull the vials from my pocket, along with a syringe.

His mouth falls open. “You stole it?”

“Well, yes, since Dr. Nadeau wasn’t offering another method, the lying bastard. Come inside so I can get this over with.”

He takes a chair at the table and I draw up the medicine. I have no idea what size dose he needs, but for tonight I decide one small syringe will be a good start. He watches me the whole time, and I’m reminded of the way he used look at me that first summer together, when we pretended to hate each other—as if I was passing by too quickly, but he was trying hard to see me anyway.

I inject the penicillin into his arm, and then drop the bottle and syringe into my pocket. “I’ll call someone in Reims tomorrow and find out the correct dosage,” I tell him.

Before I can pull away, he grabs my hand, and presses his lips to my knuckles, holding them there longer than he should. My pulse skitters in my throat at the contact, at the way it makes me long for more. It’s unfair of him to do it to me, to keep me here on this fine edge of pain and desire all the time. It would be kinder if he’d just tell me he didn’t want me. Kindest of all if he’d told me, right from the start, that he just didn’t care enough.

I pull my hand from his grasp and walk up to my room. And then, just for a moment, I let my lips rest where his did, on my knuckles. It’s almost as if I can still feel him there.

19

SARAH

The next time I see Henri, walking into the kitchen mid-day to tell us the hired hands have arrived, he looks like his old self again. I feel an odd sort of joy at the sight of him healthy once more, and when his eyes find mine across the room it’s a struggle not to smile.

“When, exactly, do you meet your musician?” asks Yvette suddenly. I’d forgotten she was even in the room and my gaze returns to the apples I’m peeling.

“A few weeks.”

Her mouth pinches. “I only ask because you’re sleeping in the baby’s room, you know.”

“We’d never discussed having him sleep in there,” says Henri sharply.

Yvette’s laughter is forced. “Well, where else would he sleep, Henri? Would you have him stay in the barn all winter instead?”

“I assumed he’d be in with us at night,” Henri argues, “so we can hear him.”

Yvette waves her hand. “No, no. I’m going to need to rest. Babies should learn to get through the night on their own anyway.”

“Babies, perhaps,” says Henri. “Newborns, no.”

I don’t enjoy their minor squabble as much as I’d have expected. If anything, it only makes them seem more married than they already did.