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“Absolutely.”

She pulled her Emily Dickinson book from her pocket, opening it with a pang of guilt. It had been a gift from Rosie. And now she was going to break Rosie’s heart. It killed her to do it. But maybe in another life, where she was braver and bolder. For now, she wanted to be safe. That was what the war had taught her—above all else: be safe.

Jamie!

Someone was calling her, but they sounded as if they were on the other end of a tunnel. She wanted to open her eyes, but her lids were too heavy. She wanted to slip back into the dark.

Jamie, can you hear me?

The voice sounded somewhat familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She hardly even felt like Jamie. She was Abigail and Kitty and Dinah. They lived and breathed within her. They were her. She carried their love as well as their fear. She wanted Verity, Aisling, and Rosie—Tessa. No matter the name, she wanted the sweet brown eyes, soft blonde hair, and passionate heart of her love.

“Jamie!”

Jamie opened her eyes to the faces of her Stanmore teammates surrounding her. Monika, Niamh, and Zahra came in clearest at first, followed by Eliana and their manager, Rebecca. Calling out was their physio, Ruby. Her coily curls were slickedback into a bun over her dark face, where Jamie fixed her gaze. She wondered when it had stopped raining.

“There we go,” Ruby said. “Jamie, can you hear me?”

Jamie tried to nod, but it made her head throb. “Yes.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital,” Jamie murmured back.

“Not quite, but we’ll get you there. Can you tell me what year it is?”

Numbers swirled around in Jamie’s head. “It’s 1918. The war’s almost over.”

“Jesus,” Ruby muttered. “I’d say it’s looking like a concussion.”

“Fuck,” Rebecca said.

Ruby waved over some more medical staff. More faces appeared and Jamie winced, closing her eyes against anything else she might have to see. Ruby patted her cheek.

“Don’t sleep, Jamie,” she said. “We need you to be alert.”

“I’m tired,” Jamie groaned. “Head hurts.”

“I know it does, love. Someone nearly kicked your skull in. But stay awake. Once we know how severe it is, you’ll be able to get some rest.”

“My book,” Jamie muttered. “I want my book.”

“Your poems, Jamie?” Zahra’s voice asked. “The book in your locker?”

“Yes, my poems. Emily. . . whatever her name is.”

“I’ll fetch it.”

“Zahra, you’ve got to get back to the match,” Rebecca protested.

“I’ll only be a moment, gaffer,” Zahra said, and then she was gone.

A dozen hands jostled Jamie onto a stretcher. She wanted her book. That was the connection, the thing that had started it all. It was rightfully hers. A gift from the love of all of her lives.

As the medical staff lifted Jamie off the grass, Zahra came skidding to a halt beside them. She took Jamie’s hand and tucked the hard cover under Jamie’s arm. Jamie smiled weakly at her.

“Thank you so much,” she said.

“Of course,” Zahra panted back. “We’re here for you, Jamie. Tell us once you’re well, okay?”