Page 36 of The Light Between Worlds

I climb up the stairs to the room that’s been mine all my life.I undress in the dark and turn my back to the empty bed that belongs to Philippa, and try not to remember the smell of the sea.

It’s nearly Christmas.

And my heart pleads with my mind to stop, but I can’t help recalling all the winters I have known. I remember and remember because I can’t bring myself to forget.

26

ON CHRISTMAS EVE, WE CATCH A BUS TO CHURCH ANDstand out under the sky that drops snow like white flowers. We light candles and sing carols.

Music rings through the great hall on Midwinter’s Day. The Woodlanders gathered are fiercely happy, the more so because we know it can’t last. We stay up until dawn, keeping the night vigil along with Cervus, who’s miles away in the birch ring at the heart of the wood. When the first light touches the horizon, a smile brightens my sister’s face.

We walk home, because it’s snowing and lovely and we’re all together (almost).

“Again, and stop thinking,” Hector orders with a scowl when I drop my dagger for the tenth time in a row.

I try once more, letting my mind drift away, past the walls of Palace Beautiful and out among the snowy trees. Without interference, my hands move like quicksilver, doing just as they’ve been taught. One moment, I’m plain Evelyn Hapwell, and the next I stand armed and beneath Hector’s defenses, with the end of my blade against the bare flesh of his side.

Hector shakes his head, though his scowl fades. “Better, but not good enough yet. You’re still just a girl with a knife.”

I push a stray lock of hair back from my eyes. “What else would I be?”

“Death,” Hector says bluntly. “Death on soundless feet.”

I shiver, and want nothing more than to walk away. But instead I sheathe my dagger and we begin again.

We go to bed after church and I lie in the dark, staring at Philippa’s empty bed. Finally, I get up and tuck her Christmas gift beneath her pillow.

Icicles hang from each tree branch, and the Woodlands have become a world edged in silver. I breathe the cold, crisp air and hike out through the forest. When I stop in a clearing and turn, Cervus is waiting, finally back from his vigil at the wood’s heart. He’s red as autumn leaves, magnificent against the snow with that branching crown of antlers rising above his head.

We eat our Christmas breakfast and open gifts. I smile enough and speak enough to keep the others from seeing how far away I am, while I remember, remember, remember.

The snow is melting, bit by bit, dripping from the palace eaves, and none of us want it to go. Spring means war. Spring means what will likely be the beginning of the end.

I am falling into that dark place where I don’t belong to one world, or two, but to none. I promised Philippa I wouldn’t go back there again, but the pull is relentless as gravity.

When, on Christmas afternoon, the bell rings and I find Tom Harper standing on the doorstep looking acutely uncomfortable, it’s like I’ve summoned him with my thoughts. He’s the first realthing that’s happened to me since leaving school. It’s as if he’s in color and the rest of the world is black and white.

“I need to go,” I say before he can speak. Tom nods. I snatch my coat off its hook and shout back over one shoulder. “I’m going out!”

“Evie, who’s that with you?” Dad calls, but I ignore him, poor lamb, as we always do.

Tom and I walk through the empty streets arm in arm and, being who he is, Tom doesn’t say a word. Snow crunches beneath our boots and the winter sky grows soft and golden as the afternoon wears on. Light pours out of windows, revealing Christmas trees and families sitting down to dinner, and the cold air cuts away at the fog inside me. I breathe and breathe and breathe until finally I find myself, Evelyn Hapwell, walking here on a London street with a kind boy who’s my brother’s friend. I slip into my own body, away from the phantoms that haunt me, and with one quite ordinary step, I leave the memories of home behind.

Oh. Here I am.

“What are you doing in London?” I ask, because this is what people do—they make polite conversation. They ask about the peculiarities of one another’s lives.

Tom takes off his cap and twists it in his hands. “I came down yesterday. Uncle Morris wired because he wasn’t well, but by the time I got here he was on the mend. To be honest, I think he didn’t want to be alone at Christmas. I rang Jamie this morning to ask after you, and he said I should come by.”

I glance up at him. He’s tall and ruddy-cheeked, breath puffing out in little clouds. “I’m sorry you missed being at home.”

Tom shrugs and smiles when he catches me looking. “So am I.But if I’d stayed home, I’d have missed seeing you. Evelyn—”

He stops for a moment, and swallows. I can see him gathering up his courage—I’ve done the same thing countless times before.

“I’m going back home tomorrow. Would you come with me?” he asks. “I know you told me to go, and you’ve got reasons to want to be on your own, but I’m here for you, either way. I’ll take whatever you want to give.”

“Yes,” I say, almost before he’s finished speaking. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”