“Keep your head down.” Francis shook his hand. It struck Harry that there was something strangely final about the way he said it. It was as if Francis didn’t expect to come back.

“Au revoir,” said Harry.

“Not if I can bloody help it.”

Francis looked back as they walked across the railway lines. Harry had nothing to feel guilty for. Why, then, did that look make him feel like he had betrayed his brother?

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Edie

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Edie

Ypres, September 1921

SHE SEES HIM FROM THE WINDOW OF THE SLOWING TRAIN. HIS PROFILE. His face turning. There, on the platform. She hears her own intake of breath, pushes herself back against her seat, and turns her face away from the window. Because, for this moment, it is him. It is Francis. But then, when she looks again, the man has stepped forward and it’s Harry, shifting from foot to foot, looking up and down the length of the train, his face all concern and nervousness, and brightening now as he sees her.

“Let me take your suitcase.”

“Dear God, I’m glad to see you!”

Is it relief that makes her hug him so tightly? She clings on to Harry as the train pulls away and the crowds shift and thin around them. With her face against Harry’s chest, the clean smell of his shirt, and his arms closed around her back, she is eighteen again, and safe and certain, and none of this has happened. She really doesn’t want to pull away and step back into this afterward life.

“I think I just heard one of my ribs crack.”

She feels his laughter. She hears the smile in his voice. And she is so glad of him.

“I’m sorry. I just worried that you might not be here. I’m so relieved to see you.”

She leans back. It is glorious to see the smile that he can’t quite seem to straighten out, and she has an urge to put her fingertips to Harry’s twitching lips, but she smooths her hair instead, pats his hand, and nods her head.

“Come on,” he says.

She watches him as they walk along the platform. It has been four months since she last saw him. Four months through which she has needed him and doubted him and worried about him. She is not sure what it is that makes the ground seem to shift beneath her feet just now—whether it is finally walking down the platform in Ypres station, or looking at Harry’s face again.

“You’re not eating enough. I could feel your ribs. Is it any wonder if I broke a couple?”