It was the day her mother had finished the mural in Lucy’s room. Lucy’s father had been loud in his admiration, but Lucy’s mother had only shaken her head, raising her hands as if to ward off further plaudits.
I am no artist, she had said ruefully. I can only copy. Mine is a very secondhand sort of talent. Not like—
She had stopped, abruptly, like a clock with a broken spring.
Lucy’s father had swung Lucy up in his arms and swept her away to make bun men from bits of dough, and the conversation had been forgotten.
Until now.
“Miss Young?” Matron was regarding her with concern.
“I can bring my things tonight,” Lucy said brusquely. “I get off work at five, although sometimes they need me later. Will that be acceptable?”
“Just let me get you your key,” said Matron, and Lucy followed her down the winding marble stairs, past a long drawing room with an elaborate, gilded ceiling, and dark paneled walls that seemed cool even in the heat of the summer day.
In the middle of the day, all the tenants were at work. The stairwell was still and quiet; the woodwork smelled of beeswax and lemon oil. If Lucy closed her eyes, she could imagine that the house was as it had been twenty-eight years ago.
When her mother had been here.
“I will need a deposit,” said Matron matter-of-factly, and Lucy dug quickly in her purse.
“How much?” she asked, hoping it wouldn’t be more than she had.
“Two weeks’ rent is standard,” said Matron, and Lucy counted out the crumpled bills, grateful that she was frugal about lunches and dinners and streetcar rides.
The front hall, once so grand, was marred by the addition of hastily constructed cubbies on one side, each marked with the name of a resident. On the other was a curious sort of concierge booth.
Lifting the hinged counter, Matron ducked behind it. Unlocking a tin cash box, she put Lucy’s hard-earned money inside.
“Room 603,” said Matron, and made a note on a piece of paper. “Miss Lucy Young.” Reaching beneath the desk, she drew out a key, frowning through her spectacles at the little tag attached to one end. “Your key, Miss Young.”
They key was a modern thing, the metal shiny with newness.
“Thank you,” said Lucy, and took it, feeling as though she had just crossed a mountain range and arrived on the other side, only to find that the campfire was dying low and there were wolves in wait just beyond the wagon train.
Wolves? Or dragons?
Deep in her heart, Lucy had half hoped she was wrong, that, once here, she would find that the house was just a house and nothing to do with her.
Had her mother danced in the great drawing room on the second floor? Had she dined in state beneath the dark beams in the formal dining room? Lucy didn’t know. All she knew was that, somehow, her past lay in this house, with the mural of a knight on the wall.
With the man whose name her mother had uttered with her dying breath.
Harry.
Four
JUNE 1944
Kate
A golden thread of sunlight wound its way through the side of a blackout shade, cutting a line of light across the attic room and into my eyes. It must have been what had awakened me, or perhaps it was the knowledge that I wasn’t alone.
I uncurled myself from the threadbare chaise longue and its faded chintz pattern. It had probably once been a very fine chair, much used and loved, but now it was worn past its usefulness. A spring had found its way through the bottom cushion, and one of the arms hung on by mere threads. I was careful not to put undue stress—or cause myself bodily injury—as I eased myself from where I’d spent most of the previous night.
Captain Ravenel had slept deeply, mostly due to the morphine I’d administered. The previous night I’d had to reopen his wound to clean it thoroughly, and thought the bliss of unconsciousness would be a relief to us both. The leg was badly damaged, the wound worse for having been sutured before all the bone and bullet fragments could be removed, the infection worse because of the delayed use of penicillin. I had doubts I could save the leg, but I kept them to myself. I continued to see his eyes as he’d begged me to save his leg, and I couldn’t allow myself to think of failure.
I looked at my watch pinned to my blouse, realizing it was time for another dose of morphine. Nurse Hathaway, a girl just past twenty who was too young to have formed any traditional opinions about the way things should be and didn’t seem to mind taking orders from a female doctor, had brought several syrettes of the pain medication the previous evening, sparing me yet another dash up and down the stairs.