He shook his head. “I don’t think so. The war has made the present more important than the past, and far more certain than the future. How I feel right now is all I can rely on. And after all that you’ve told me, I think I love you more.”

Few words have as many variants as love. I felt it resonate deep in my chest and knew it to mean something different from any other version I’d heard or uttered. But the sadness on Gareth’s face remained. He took my hand and kissed the scars, then he turned and went into the Press.

When I stirred the next morning, the house felt frigid. I could hardly raise my body from the bed. Gareth’s words should have been a relief, but they were tempered by his sadness. He was holding something back from me, as I had from him. I shivered and wished that Lizzie was there.

I dressed quickly and walked in near darkness to Sunnyside.

Lizzie was up to her elbows in suds when I came into the kitchen. The bench was crowded with breakfast things: dirty bowls and teacups; plates with crumbs of toast.

“The range is blazing,” she said. “Go warm yourself while I finish the dishes.”

“Where’s the girl who normally comes in the morning?” I asked. There had been a few, and the name of the current one escaped me.

“Gone. At least the war’s good for some people: the factories pay more than the Murrays ever could.”

I removed my coat and took up a tea towel. “Any chance Mrs. Ballard could come out of retirement?”

“She struggles to get out of her chair these days,” said Lizzie.

I cut a thick slice of bread and spread it with jam. “I made an extra loaf,” said Lizzie. “Take it with you when you leave tonight.”

“You really don’t need to do that,” I said, licking jam from my fingers.

“You’re in the Scrippy dawn to dusk and no maid—I really don’t know why you let the maid go. Someone needs to look after you.”

When I was warm to my bones and my stomach was full, I walked across the garden to the Scriptorium. I was grateful to find it empty. No one would arrive for an hour at least.

It had barely changed since I’d hidden beneath the sorting table, and for a moment I could imagine my world with Da in it and no war. I trailed my fingers along the shelves; it was a way of remembering.