“Oh, of course.” I leaned down and took the key from under a pot. I held it out. “There you are.”

He looked at it. “Well, I don’t think you should give it up that easily. It’s not a dowry.”

Before I could reply, he bent down and picked me up.

“Right,” he said, “you open the door, and we’ll cross the threshold together. Make it quick though, Es. If you don’t mind.”

The house was filled with lily of the valley, and every room was spotless. The range was warming the kitchen against a cool evening, and our dinner was slowly cooking.

“You’re lucky to have Lizzie, you know,” Gareth said, putting me down.

“I do know. I also know I’m lucky to have you.” Without discussion, I took Gareth’s hand and led him up the stairs.

I opened the door to Da’s old room. The bed had a new coverlet, quilted and detailed with Lizzie’s delicate stitches. I’d never slept there, and now I was glad of it. It was our bridal bed.

We weren’t shy about our bodies, but we guarded what we knew, and what we didn’t. When a memory of Bill came unbidden, I was horrified. I remembered his finger tracing the parting of my hair and continuing down my face and the length of my body, making excursions along the way. “Nose,” he had whispered close to my ear. “Lips, neck, breast, belly button…”

I shivered, and Gareth pulled back a little. I took his hand and kissed his palm. Then I guided his fingers down the length of my body, making excursions along the way.

“Mount of Venus,” I said, when we reached the soft tangle of hair.

Gareth had a commission with the 2nd Ox and Bucks but was given a month before he had to report to Cowley Barracks. Though Dr. Murray could hardly spare me, he agreed to shorter days. In the afternoons, I walked from the Scriptorium to the Press, where I found Gareth showing men who were too young, too old, or too short-sighted how to hold a rifle. The Press was training a home guard.

I watched him, as I’d watched him before. He was showing a boy no older than fifteen how to hold a rifle. He placed the boy’s left hand under the barrel; the other hand he positioned around the stock, moving the boy’s index finger back so only the tip was resting on the trigger. He was as focused as if he were selecting type and placing it in his stick to make a word. I saw him stand back to assess the boy’s stance. He gave an instruction, and the boy shifted the rifle from his shoulder closer to his chest.