Page 55 of The Light Between Worlds

I stand and pace the kitchen floor, restless and wanting to be out of the house. No, what I really want is to be on horseback. I want Palace Beautiful’s tall plow horse, Gensa, and the beach below the cliffs. Were I there now, I’d set my heels to his sides and gallop until the sand gave way to horizon.

Instead, I wrap my arms around my waist and stare out the kitchen window at the brick wall beyond. “I never would have told you, if this hadn’t happened.”

“Do you want to—talk about it?” Jamie’s offer is hesitant. He’s not sure he wants to make it, and not sure if I’ll accept.

“No. Absolutely not. I need some fresh air.”

I gather up my coat and plunge back into the lamplit London streets. My mind is made up. First thing on Monday I’ll stop at the Gallery, and tell Presswick I want the job she offered. I need to be busy, or I’ll fall to pieces.

And I refuse to end up like my sister.

The Gallery looms above me as I climb the front steps Monday morning, clutching a thermos of coffee. I’m always tired, but sleep is hard to come by, across the room from Evelyn’s empty bed.

The doors have only just opened and I make my way to the front counter, where the same bored young woman I saw on Saturday is surreptitiously finishing a cup of tea.

“I’m looking for Presswick,” I say. “She offered me a job, as general assistant.”

The clerk’s blank expression vanishes. She shifts forward, eyes sparking with interest. “Presswick?Presswick hired you? That’s impossible—she’d have to like you to give you a job, and she doesn’t like anyone. Are yousureit was Presswick? What did she look like?”

“Grey. Prickly as a Scotch thistle.”

The clerk’s mouth forms a little O. “That’s Presswick, alright. What did you say to her?”

I lift one shoulder, by just an inch, an elegant gesture that implieswhatever Philippa wants, Philippa gets, and that it isn’t odd for jobs to fall into my lap. “We talked about art, that’s all. Perhaps I make a good first impression.”

Jamie would throw his head back and laugh if he heard me speak those words so guilelessly. I make exactly the sort of first impression I mean to, and have done for years. The truth is, though, withPresswick I was honest. I was my unguarded self, as I so seldom am, and it’s as much of a surprise to me as it is to the girl behind the counter that anything good came of that honesty.

“I should say you do.” There’s a look of admiration on the girl’s face, and I can’t help but smile.

“I’m Philippa Hapwell,” I say, holding out a gloved hand. “You can call me Phil, if you like.”

“Kitty Foster.” The girl shakes my hand and calls to a guard crossing the far end of the room. “Albright! This is Philippa—Presswickhired her. Can you take her back to the old battle-ax’s office for me? I can’t leave the desk.”

Albright’s still in uniform, but carrying a bag and undoubtedly just coming off his shift.

“Oh, come on, Kitty,” he says tiredly. “I’m headed home. Can’t you have Billings do it?”

But he makes the mistake of glancing over at me. Poor Albright’s a good fifteen years my senior, pasty from working indoors and going a little to seed, but I’m dressed for battle in a navy suit and matching pumps. I favor him with a slow and secret smile, and he’s lost. Behold, the powers of lipstick and a good permanent.

Powder and pumps, indeed. You forget I was thrown over by nothing more than words once, Jamie, and now my life is a constant offensive of charm and smiles, lest it happen again.

“S’alright.” Albright’s gruff and awkward, trying to hide the white flag that might as well be waving over his head. “I could use the walk anyway. Come on, Miss—”

“Hapwell.” I speak my name like a note of music and he stumpsoff, expecting me to follow. I do, pumps making a satisfying sound on the tile of the hall floor, but I take enough time to look over one shoulder at Kitty. She’s watching, and I raise my eyebrows and quirk my mouth, as if Albright’s sudden surrender is a private joke between us. She smiles and shakes her head, but anyone can see she’s pleased.

We walk through what seems like miles of galleries—some open and lit and hung with pictures, others still bomb-damaged, half full of tarps and rubble. I fall suddenly and fiercely in love with this place, which presents a serene and beautiful front to the public, but hides rooms that have been gutted and are only now undergoing the long, slow process of being put back together.

Albright leaves me outside the shut door of an office after grunting something about Presswick. He hasn’t surrendered with very good grace and I’ll have to work on him. If everything goes well, we’ll be seeing each other again.

I don’t watch him go. Instead, I knock at the office door.

“Come in,” Presswick’s acerbic voice says from inside. I step in and shut the door behind me.

The woman I met while looking at Rembrandts sits behind a desk in an austerely furnished office. She’s thin-faced, hair pulled severely back, and wears a tweed jacket and trousers. I take a seat and wait when she doesn’t bother looking up from whatever it is she’s writing on a thick sheet of paper.

Finally, she finishes and sets her pen aside. She leans back in her chair and takes a measure of me. “Well, what do you want, girl? Out with it.”

I refuse to let myself be cowed. “You hired me the day before yesterday. I’m your new general assistant.”