Page 84 of The Light Between Worlds

Love,

Mum

The invitation lists a time and date, two weeks from now. I stare down at it, and at the letter, until Presswick glances up. “What is it?”

“A letter from my mother, and an invitation to a service for my sister.”

Presswick takes off her spectacles and gives me a long, searching look. “Will you go?”

“I can’t think of anything worse and it’ll mean another day off, the Friday after next.”

“Good girl,” Presswick says approvingly. “You won’t regret being there, I promise you.”

“May I take a few minutes?” I ask. Presswick nods and turns back to her work.

I walk through one of the reference rooms on my way upstairs, full of waiting masterpieces. The air in the room is still, hushed with anticipation. It’s the same on the Main Floor, and I wonder if a storm’s about to break outside.

Rembrandt’sWoman Bathing in a Streamis waiting for me. Istand by as an elderly couple finishes with her, then step up to the silk cord that separates us.

Now the painting’s been cleaned, there’s a luminous quality to the light that strikes her. It picks out gold everywhere—in her hair, in the folds of her shirt, in the ripples of the water as she steps forward. I still can’t quite tell what she’s thinking, but it’s easy to see from the expression on her face what she doesn’t feel.

She’s not afraid. She’s not overwrought. There is a calmness, a deliberateness to her posture. She’s at peace, and she holds up the hem of her linen shirt the way a queen holds her royal robes. I may not know what the bather is about to do—may not know if she’s grieving or glad—but I know she’s come to this place of her own volition. The riverbank is no surprise to her. And she looks down at the water the way one might look at an old friend.

I stop at the front desk on my way back through the Gallery. Kitty waves a languid greeting and I lean against the counter. “Mind if I use the phone?”

“Mi casa es su casa,” Kitty quips, and passes me the telephone. I turn the dial and wait as the phone rings, and rings, and rings.

“Hello?” says Jamie’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Jamie. It’s Phil.”

“I know.”

I pause. “Do you?”

“Yes, St. Agatha’s sent me an invitation. I’m assuming you’ve got one, too.”

I shift, trying to keep out of Kitty’s way as she dispenses guidebooks.

“Are we going?” Jamie asks.

“I don’t want to,” I admit. “But I think I need to. I’m not asking you to come.”

Jamie’s quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Of course I’m coming. I’ll meet you at the station next week Friday. It’s going to be dreadful, but strength in numbers and all that.”

“Friday, then.”

“Friday.”

61

I DON’T TELL JACK UNTIL EARLY THE DAY OF, WHEN HE’Sdressed for work and I’m dressed for the train. I’ve come down from the attic and we sit side by side on his couch eating muffins and eggs and having a morning cup of tea, because there isn’t room for a table and chairs.

“I’m going to a service for Evelyn today,” I blurt out, because there’s no way to lead into it. Jack’s hand, holding a teacup, stops halfway to his mouth. Then he sets the cup aside and shifts to look at me straight on.

“Do you want me to come?”

I reach up and brush one hand against his face. Yes, I do. Of course I do. But this is the last of my pentimenti, the last of my repentances, and it ought to be done alone. “You’re a lamb to offer, but my brother will be there. I’ll stay at the inn in town, and come back Saturday.”