Page 81 of The Light Between Worlds

Jack’s head jerks up but before he can say anything I cross theroom and pull off my pumps, dropping them carelessly to the floor next to his prosthetic. I slide down and sit at his side.

Jack fishes a thermos out of his bag and hands it to me. “You’re here for so long after hours most nights, I thought I’d stay, too, and see if you came back before going home. Bad news?”

“Yes and no.” I unscrew the thermos cap and grimace at the smell of chamomile and honey. Piano and trumpet filter out from the gramophone as Ella Fitzgerald picks up the refrain of “I Hadn’t Anyone Till You.” “The Yard had my brother come down from Oxford. They found a body.”

Silence. Then, “Phil, I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t her.” I lean my head back against the wall and shut my eyes, though even with them closed I can see the dead girl’s face. “But I read on the file next to her that she’d drowned. And it wasawful, Jack. Whoever it was, she’d been in the water too long and she didn’t even look human anymore. If Ev—”

I stop a moment before going on. “What are you reading? Tell me what you’re reading, please, I’d like to think about anything but this and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.”

Jack’s voice is calm, an anchor in the storm. “The latest Poirot.”

“Do you like mysteries?” Ella’s voice pours over me like moonlight, and I’m waiting for it to wash away the horror of the day.

“I do. I like how tidily everything wraps up at the end. And I was given a box of mysteries in hospital, which helped keep me from dwelling on my troubles.”

“That’s just what I need,” I say from in the dark of my own making. “Do you mind reading aloud?”

Jack’s voice and Ella’s twine together in a counterpoint of jazzand murder, and I doze, dreamlessly, finally worn to a last thread, until he murmurs to me, “Philippa. It’s late. We should be getting home.”

I’m still half asleep and at some point while I was dozing he must have put his prosthetic back on. Once I’ve slid into my shoes, Jack helps me to my feet and we walk through the quiet emptiness of the Gallery together. I ought to say I’ve forgotten something and need to go back to get it, because the door will lock behind us and I’ll have to knock until Albright lets me in, but I don’t want to say good night just yet. I don’t want to face being alone. Instead I go out into the cool night air with Jack and when I shiver, he puts an arm around me.

“Well,” he says at the top of the museum steps, “I’m just a few streets over that way. Do you want me to walk you to the bus?”

“No. I’ll be fine. Good night.”

“Good night, then.”

I hurry down the steps and to the bus stop. When I look back and see that Jack’s vanished and the square is empty, I turn and trudge wearily up to the portico.

But Jack hasn’t gone. He’s leaning against the doorway, with his hands in his pockets and a bemused look on his face. “I never see you go home. Don’t you have a place to stay?”

I wrap my arms around my waist, trying to keep myself in one piece. “Of course I do. I’m staying here.”

Jack steps forward. “Look, you can come with me if you like, just for tonight, until we can find a better arrangement. I’ll take the sofa. But we’ve got to keep quiet—my landlady would have a fit if she saw me bring someone home.”

So we walk the short distance to his flat, through the shadows of St. James’s Park and along the dreaming London streets. His rooms are cramped—there are only two of them, one with space enough for a couch, a sink, and a hot plate, the other with a bed and a nightstand. I’ve left my few things behind at the Gallery, and he hands me a pair of striped pajamas without a word before shutting himself in the bedroom.

After a moment, I knock.

“Come in,” Jack calls, and I do. He’s half changed already, his back to me and his head bowed as he buttons his pajama shirt.

“Let me see you,” I say softly. Slowly, he turns.

The whole left side of his body is spackled with burns, the skin slick in some places and puckered in others. I’ve never wanted anyone so badly, to have and to hold, perhaps forever, but when he raises his head his eyes are sad.

“Sorry. Not much to look at, I know. If you ever change your mind about me, Philippa, I’m not going to hold it against you, I hope that’s clear.”

I take three steps across the tiny bedroom and put my hands on his bare skin. He draws in a breath and then I kiss him and he kisses me until I slide the shirt from his shoulders and it falls to the floor.

But when I stop to fumble with the neck of my blouse, there’s a shift of air and the click of the door shutting between us.

I drop my hands in frustration and stare at the closed door as Jack’s voice drifts, muffled, from the other side. “I can’t, Phil. Not now. I’m not exactly modern, and—well, I’ve got this foolish idea that I’ll ask you to marry me someday. Sooner rather than later, I hope.”

I press my forehead to the door and sigh. “Oh, come on, Jack. You haven’t even managed to ask me to dinner yet.”

“I’ve been waiting for the right moment,” he says. “Besides, I don’t think you’re in any shape to be making decisions tonight.”