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“That is generally how letters work,” said Alexandra.

“But that isn’t what we agreed upon at all,” said Izzie, her frustration growing. “Sylvia made it clear as day that she wanted nothing to do with Mum and me after she was married.”

“Was that her decision or this Horrible Hugo fellow’s?”

“I’m certain Hugo didn’t help,” Izzie conceded, “but ultimately the decision was Sylvia’s.”

It had started the moment Sylvia told Izzie she was engaged. Izzie had been thrilled—what fourteen-year-old wouldn’t be delighted that their beloved, beautiful sister was to be married to a man who had swept into their lives like a fairy-tale prince?—but then Sylvia had begun having tea with Hugo’s mother, who had a great number of thoughts about how the wedding should proceed. Suddenly every conversation was about what people would think and how Hugo’s family friends would expect this or that from the ceremony. Izzie had listened to it all, slightly in awe of the family her sister was marrying into, until it came to the dress and the bridesmaids. Then Izzie understood that Sylvia had changed—and not for the better.

“Sylvia wants to pretend that the last fourteen years didn’t happen,” Izzie said.

“Do you think she could be a little ashamed of what she did?” asked Alexandra.

“What do you mean?” she asked with a frown.

Alexandra shrugged. “Sometimes people come to regret the decisions they made a long time ago.”

“Not Sylvia. She knew exactly what she was doing when she met Hugo.”

“I’m sorry, Izzie,” said Alexandra. “Families are tricky things.”

Izzie sighed. That they were.

“What does your family think about you becoming a WAAF?” she asked.

“Oh, they’re all in favor of it. Daddy is mad for flying. He flew in the last war. I think if they would let him, he’d be up in a Spitfire in a flash—not that Mamma would allow it. She says it’s bad enough having three sons in the RAF,” said Alexandra.

“Three sons?” Izzie asked in surprise.

Alexandra pulled a face. “Yes. I have the misfortune of having three older brothers. Awful, all of them, although I love them all to pieces.

“Having brothers is a real nuisance. They’re enough worry when there isn’t a war on. I’ve told all of them that if they manage to get themselves killed, I’ll be very cross and will haunt them for the rest of time. They had the audacity to point out that hauntings generally don’t work like that. Rascals.” Alexandra glanced at her watch. “Do you fancy another cup of tea?”

Izzie opened her mouth to say yes, but something made her hesitate. They might wear the same uniform, but everything about Alexandra, from the cut-glass polish of her accent to her dower house, told her that they were from very different worlds. How would they ever have enough in common to make it through another cup of tea’s worth of conversation?

“I should write Sylvia back,” she said, stuffing her sister’s letter back in its envelope.

“Oh.” For a moment, there was real disappointment in Alexandra’s face, but then, just as quickly, her sunny smile returned. “Of course you should. You have a shop to manage.”

As Izzie walked away she couldn’t help the temporary tug of doubt that settled low in her stomach. She glanced over her shoulder back at Alexandra, who remained alone at the table, toying with the handle of her teacup. She recognized that look. It was the same one she’d worn as she watched her fellow seamstresses at Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions bundle up in their coats, chattering about which film or dance they would go to that evening. No one ever invited Izzie, because she was Mrs. Shelton’s daughter.

She’d told herself that she didn’t care. Proving to Mum that she was capable of running the shop was more important. Yet that hadn’t stopped the creep of loneliness as she walked by pubs cheerful with full tables or stepped around gaggles of women spilling out of cinema doors after a film.

And now, knowing that Mum hadn’t trusted her enough to leave Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions to her, she had to ask herself if it had all been worth it.

Next time Alexandra asked, she decided, she would say yes to that cup of tea.

5 January 1942

Dear Sylvia,

You have asked me to write to you about my camp and training. Here it is—or at least what I can tell you without bringing out the censors’ black pen.

Everything runs to a routine here. There are about thirty girls to a Nissen hut, and we are woken every morning by a bell. We jump up and into our clothes for physical training. A WAAF NCO named Corporal Murphy runs us through our drills. Sometimes it is things like calisthenics. Other times we are made to run. Then we shower and dress again before going to the mess for breakfast.

You might be surprised to learn how much of the rest of our day is spent in classes. Apparently there is a great deal to learn when becoming a WAAF. We have lectures on how to use our gas masks and what horrible sorts of things will happen to us if we’re not fast enough. We’ve learned about the RAF ranks, how to address an officer, and how to keep our equipment.

I shall stop myself there because I doubt that the censors will thank me for listing too many more of the specifics. Suffice it to say that it feels as though I am back in the schoolroom—which is not what I was expecting when I registered.