I dressed for the funeral while Gareth packed the last of his things into his kit bag. He took his greatcoat from the wardrobe, though the day was warm and winter could barely be imagined.

He came to me and kissed my forehead, brushed his thumbs beneath my eyes and kissed each salty lid. He took up one hand and then the other, buttoning the cuffs of my blouse.

I attached my hat, tucked my curls in tighter and stood in front of the mirror. Gareth passed behind me, out into the hall. When he came back, he had his brush and his comb. I watched his reflection place them in the bag, and I wondered if I could take them out without him seeing and put them back on the bathroom sink.

We were ready.

We stood at the foot of the bed we had shared for barely a month of nights. Our lips came together, and I remembered the first time—the taste of tea sweetened by sugar. This kiss had the taste of oceans. It was gentle and quiet and long. We each imbued it with what we needed it to be. The memory would have to sustain us.

I caught our reflection. We could have been any couple before the whistle blew to board the train. But I wouldn’t be going to the station. I couldn’t bear it.

Gareth would be leaving after the funeral. He tied up his bag and hoisted it onto his shoulder. I took my handbag and put in a clean handkerchief. I followed Gareth out of the room but turned at the last moment to make sure nothing had been forgotten. Rupert Brooke’s poems were still by the bed. I raced back and put them in my handbag, then hurried down the stairs.

At the funeral, I stood with Gareth at the back of the crowd of mourners—two hundred at least, despite the short notice. I wept more than decorum allowed: more than Mrs. Murray; more than Elsie and Rosfrith and all the Murray children and grandchildren put together. When the last word was spoken and the family stepped forward, I turned to walk away.

Gareth’s hand found mine and I pleaded, as quietly as I could, for him to let me go.

“Walk back with Lizzie when it’s all finished,” I said. “I’ll see you at Sunnyside.”

As I came through the gates, there was a strange stillness. The house was nothing more than the stone that formed it, its pulse and breath all gathered in the churchyard. For the first time in my life, the Scriptorium struck me as an impermanent thing—an old iron shed not worthy of its purpose.

I opened the kitchen door. The smell of the morning’s bread had grown rich with the day’s heat. It tethered me back in place.