Page 62 of The Light Between Worlds

But she reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a newspaper. My stomach clenches, already sour with black coffee and not much else.

Search for Missing Girl Continues, the headline reads, and one of Ev’s school pictures stares out at me, serious and solemn-eyed, her golden hair haloed with the light of another world.

“Your sister,” Presswick says simply. I set my bag down and sit before my legs give way.

“How long have you known?”

Presswick shrugs. “I guessed, when you first told me your name.You had that look about you, of a person who’s living with unanswered questions.”

I narrow my eyes at the older woman across from me, plain and severe in her tweed suit. “And how do you know that look?”

Presswick returns the newspaper to its drawer and removes a framed photograph from the same place. She hands it to me and I look down at the face of a young man in uniform.

“His name was Arthur Merritt,” Presswick says, and the edge to her voice melts away. “We were engaged, before the Great War, when I was just a girl. He flew fighter planes until he was shot down over France. They found the wreckage, but never a body.”

Carefully, Presswick takes the picture back and hides it away again. She picks up her pen and speaks over the sound of it scratching away on paper.

“Take the time you need, Hapwell, and find whatever answers you can. I will, of course, expect you to catch up on Monday.”

Bowing my head over my own work, I let out a slow breath.

I’ll find you, Evelyn. I’m coming for you. I’ll make right the wrong I’ve done.

Presswick’s gone out on lunch break when a faint knock sounds at the door.

“Come in,” I call without looking up. The door groans a little on its hinges and there’s the squeak of wheels as someone pushes a cart inside. I ignore the sounds of movement, the whisper of a panel sliding into place against the wall.

But then there’s a polite cough, so I push the papers in front of me aside and glance at the doorway.

It’s not the doorway I notice, though, or the person standing in it. I’m riveted by the painted panel on the wall. It’s blue-green, the color of the sea below Palace Beautiful, the color of grief, the color of my heart. The background is stark in its simplicity, the female figures deceptive in their primitive rendering. Dressed in folds of plain blue cloth, they stand, heads bowed together, taking comfort from each other’s presence. I feel, for the second time in as many days, as if something’s being said to me in a language without words, and a chill runs down my spine.

“Oh, comeon,” I mutter. “The stags were bad enough, but what’s that doing here? It’s supposed to be in Leningrad.”

“Do you know,” the figure in the doorway says, a hint of amusement in his voice, “I’ve never met anyone who reacts to things quite the same way you do.”

My hands fly involuntarily to my face, cool against my burning cheeks, because of course it’s him—the young man from the restoration room, with whom I made such a fool of myself.

“I’m Jack Summerfield.” He moves forward, a hitch in his step, leaning a little on an unornamented cane and holding out his free hand. “I don’t think before counted as an introduction, so here we are. Charmed, and all that.”

“Philippa Hapwell.” I shake his offered hand, careful not to hold on for too long. “Look, I’m so sorry about—well, everything. Do you think we could start over? If you’d rather not, I understand and I can try to keep out of your way—”

“We are starting over. That’s why I came down in the first place.” He smiles, one side of his mouth tilting up, humor in his dark eyes.

I look away, a little horrified at the spectacle I keep making of myself. Pull yourself together, Philippa, you’ve handled foreign kings and declarations of war with better grace than this.

Jack ignores my lack of composure and turns instead so that he’s standing next to me and we both face the painting on the wall.

“What is it you have against Picasso?” he asks.

I shake my head and stare at the pair of sad figures. “It’s not Picasso, just this picture.”

“The Two Sisters?”

“Exactly.”

“Should I inquire further?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t. But you could tell me why it’s here in the first place.”