Don’t stare, don’t stare…whatever you do, don’t stare… As Tilly settled back into the seat, Kate raised her gaze. Well, I tried. Tilly’s heart-shaped face was free of make-up, her green eyes framed by lashes long and dark enough to incite envy. The sisters had called her “Tilly Longstocking” as a teenager but her auburn hair had darkened with age, the amber streaks no longer so prominent. With the van windows wound down, a few shorter strands had escaped from her plait to flit about her face. Kate’s gaze flickered from the incline of the road ahead and back to the rear-view mirror. Captivated, she watched as Tilly smoothed the plait from one side of her neck to the other. There was something about seeing Tilly so very grown up that left her short of breath.

Her anxiety about seeing Tilly was something that she had anticipated—she’d always been fascinated by her. But she hadn’t expected to feel so attracted in a mouth-dry, mind-deserted sort of way. They’d hugged at the pier, Tilly’s body pressed so closely to hers that she’d worried Tilly could feel her heartbeat. She’d pulled Tilly against her with a chuckle, the scent of Tilly’s soft, flowery perfume sending her dizzy with excitement—and dread. She didn’t need this, not now. Why couldn’t Tilly have returned to Lords in three months’ time after Kate had gone? She’d spent twelve years trying to get over Tilly. And she had. She had. But, God, seeing Tilly all grown up had her stomach in knots.

Everything about Tilly brought memory flooding back in waves. In the reflection, the sun caught the solid gold of Tilly’s crucifix—an eighteenth birthday gift. Sister Hattie had snuck into their dorm room just after the first ring of the convent bells, knelt beside Tilly’s bed and planted kisses on her cheeks until she’d woken. Kate had sat up in bed, groggy with sleep, watching as Sister Hattie clipped the crucifix around Tilly’s neck. That birthday, Kate had given Tilly a bottle of Chanel No. 5, and Tilly had treated it like a prized possession, using it sparingly for feast day masses, birthday dinners, graduation…

Kate spied upward at Tilly and followed her line of sight across their side of the island to the statue of St. Joan of Arc on horseback, the stone figure so enormous that, on a clear day, St. Joan and her raised bronze flag were visible from Mornington Pier.

“Your hair is still short, Kate.”

At the sound of her name, Kate returned her eyes to the unsealed dirt road. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Doubt I’ll ever turn back.”

“It was so much longer in school. I still remember that day we met in the city, after you’d cut it…”

Their gazes met in the mirror. Kate smiled. The only reason she’d ever let her hair grow past her shoulders was because she’d loved the sensation of Tilly’s fingers raking through it when she’d plait it. The first week of university, Kate had cut it off. After that, she’d seen Tilly just once.