“Nothing here is the same as home,” Davy said as I kissed his cheek. “I don’t like it like I thought I would.”
“I’m here, and so is your brother. All will be well. It takes time, my love.”
“I like it,” Douglas said from the next bed. “But I wish we could just stay here at the Kilns with the pond and the big forest and the guest cottage full of little creatures and the garden and Paxford . . .”
I knelt at the bedside for nighttime prayer, closed my eyes, and told the truth. “Me too, son. Me too.”
Four days passed too quickly. Paxford and Mrs. Miller took to the boys as if they’d known them all along. Warnie rang a gong for lunch （only he was allowed to ring the small treasure from his time in Hong Kong during World War I）， and Mrs. Miller cooked for us. Paxford showed the boys all through the property, giving them jobs and teaching them about the land. While Davy looked to the stars and wanted to know every constellation, Douglas touched each plant and wanted to know its name. In their individual ways, they were both trying to find their place in the world.
On the last night I approached Jack in the common room. “I have a gift for you,” I said.
“Oh, you do? Is it a ham?”
“The ham! I sent that all those years ago.” I laughed and found myself in a coughing fit—the cold settling in my chest. I shook my head. “No, not a ham.” I held up my finger. “Wait here, it’s in my room.”
I returned quickly with the long box I’d carried from London. “You can save it for Christmas under the tree or—”
“Open it now,” he interrupted and ripped the top off the box.
And there it was—an antique Persian sword I’d found in a flea market in London the week before. He pulled it from its sheath, and it shimmered in the light of the fire.
“It reminded me of your stories, of the magic in them,” I said.
“Joy. A shamshir—a magical sword from all fairy tales. It’s exquisite. I shall hang it right above the fireplace, allow it to remind me of you, our friendship, and your boys fighting with their invisible swords.”
He ran his hand across the top of the metal sword, and then his finger slipped ever so slightly. A thin line of blood appeared on his forefinger as he withdrew his hand.
“Oh, Jack.” I took his hand in mine and bent to kiss the wound, a quick and natural reaction to injury.
He withdrew quickly and with such deft sureness that my lips landed on nothing but air. He put his finger against the wool of his coat and laughed. “I’m such a clumsy bloke. It’s no wonder they never let me play sports.”
Red heat filled my chest. He turned to place the sword on the mantle, and the structure of his chin, the lines of his smile, caught the firelight. A line of poetry surged forward in my mind: the accidental beauty of his face.
I was dangerously close to allowing this love to become what it must not.
He set the sword on top of the fireplace mantle. “Thank you, Joy. Look at it up there, so stately.”
Together we sat on the chairs and stared into the fire, the quiet stretching into sleepiness until I shifted in my seat. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about a book I just finished. It really must be your next.”
“Tell me.”
“I think I’ve told you of Arthur Clarke. He’s one of the sci-fi boys in London. He’s written a book titled Childhood’s End. He’s sold so many copies, hit the jackpot if you will.”
“Jackpots aren’t always the best things,” he said. “But it will be my next read so we might talk about it.” He leaned forward, his eyes catching the shadows of the fire. “It is jolly well one of my favorite things to do—talk about stories with you.”
“And I, you.” I glanced around the room. “Where has Warnie gone?”
“He fell asleep in his chair when you tucked the boys into bed. I helped him upstairs.” Jack’s voice held the anxiety and grief I knew well—that of loving another who is destroying himself with alcohol.
“I’m sorry, Jack. I know how you feel.”
“Just when I believe he’s kicked it, he hasn’t. It’s the war. It still lives in him, and he tries to quiet it. I’d rather not speak of it. But thank you for your sympathy. It’s a hell of a thing.”
I did reach for him then, across the space between us. I touched his skin, the small space between his shirt sleeve and wrist. I ran my finger down to the knuckles, a gentle trace, and then gave his hand a squeeze of sympathy. This time he didn’t withdraw.