Chapters (43)
- A Fatal Grace
- ALSO BY LOUISE PENNY
- A Fatal Grace
- CONTENTS
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Em saw the book, heavy with words, rise and fall on her stomach. She looked down at the bookmark. Halfway through. She was only halfway there. Émilie picked up the book again, this time holding it in both hands, and read some more, losing herself in the story. She hoped it would have a happy ending. That the woman would find love and happiness. Or maybe just herself. That would be enough.
The book closed again as Em’s eyes closed.
Mother Bea could see the future and it didn’t look good. It never had. Even in the best of times Mother had the gift of seeing the worst. It was a quality that hadn’t served her well. Living in the wreckage of her future sure took the joy out of the present. The only comfort was that almost none of her fears had come true. The planes had never crashed, the elevators never plummeted, the bridges had remained solid spans. All right, her husband had left her, but that wasn’t exactly a disaster. Some might even say it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. She’d forced him away. He’d always complained that there were too many in their relationship. Beatrice, him and God. One had to go.
It wasn’t much of a choice.
Now Mother Bea lay in bed, snug in her soft and warm flannel sheets, the duvet heavy around her plump body. She’d chosen God over her husband, but the truth was she’d have chosen a good eiderdown over him too.
This was her favorite place in the whole wide world. In bed in her home, safe and sound. So why couldn’t she sleep? Why couldn’t she meditate any more? Why couldn’t she even eat?
Kaye lay in bed issuing orders to the young and frightened infantrymen around her in the trench. Their flat, shallow helmets were askew and their faces dirty with muck and shit and the first flush of whiskers. The first and last, she knew, but chose not to tell them. Instead she gave them a rousing speech and assured them she’d be the first out of the trench when the time came, then led them in a heartfelt chorus of ‘Rule Britannia’.
They’d all die soon, she knew. And Kaye curled herself into the tightest ball, ashamed of the cowardice she’d carried all her life like a child in the womb, so much in contrast to her father’s obvious courage.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Peter, for the hundredth time.