Mine too have returned. Not the tears, which have strangely dried up within me, but nightmares that leave me trembling and sweating and dreading to fall back asleep. I guess it’s unsurprising after the harrowing events of the prior week.

My word, was it that recent? Time is nothing if not peculiar, how it can reduce years to a blink and stretch days—nights even more so—into eons. The latter of which bring an onslaught of memories, if you allow such a thing.

I don’t.

I strive not to anyhow.

Some still sneak through like water through cracks—fuel, more aptly, inflaming my anger. In the four days since returning to Beaconsfield, that’s what I feel most: a simmering fury. At Hitler. The Nazis. The world.

At Arie.

Plainly he was aware of the shot to his side. Sure, he might have underestimated the severity or wasn’t thinking clearly. Maybe he glommed onto a sense of invincibility as too many men do. More likely, he was being stubborn and playing the usual protector, keeping me from venturing out to seek help.

Granted, I admit…I would have done precisely that, regardless of consequences to me or others, Evelien included. And yes, with a low likelihood of success.

But here and now, I have no interest in logic. Not after what he did—or, just as inexcusably, what I did. Abandoning my defenses, surrendering my heart, and for what?

How naive of me, for even a moment, to view true happiness as anything but what it is: the cruelest illusion of all.

***

A roll of thunder reverberates through the pub at the inn, portending a gray day of rain suitable for the task awaiting me in London. Evelien flinches in the seat beside me.

From across the table, Hutton pulls the cigarette from his lips and beats me to an assurance. “Nothing to fret over, my dear.” His eyes gaze brightly through his glasses. “They say it’s just the giants playing bowls. Or the gods venting a bit of their anger.”

Discharged from the hospital a week ago, he’s back in his standard tweed suit. It’s our second lunch visit since my escape with Evelien, who looks to me now for a final say—as has become her habit. Only a child would fail to see the shattered heap of my life, a floundering jumble that ought to preclude me from giving guidance to anyone.

Nonetheless, I nod and smile to put her at ease.

As she returns to the last of her sandwich, the sole other patrons in the room—an older couple—shuffle out and a trio of young girls bounds in, all gaiety and giggles. I’m reminded it’s Saturday; it’s difficult to keep track anymore.