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IV

People spill into the street.

They laugh and cry and dance and drink, giddy with the news.

The war is over.

The world exhales, and Charlotte feels lighter than she has in years.

The air is awash in hope and joy and sheer relief. Charlotte wraps it round her like a cloak, lets the good mood sink into her bones.

She is na?ve enough to think the worst is over now, and she marvels at the beauty that rises in the horror’s wake. The defiant way the world recovers, grows back stronger than before.

Even Sabine is in a brighter mood, though it’s hard to tell if it’s because the Allies won, or simply because Charlotte is better company again.

There is something else.

Sabine has begun to go her own way at night sometimes, to wander off and hunt alone, but she always comes back bright-eyed and happy, humming with life, and always with a gift in hand—a single sunflower, a silver comb, a first edition of Camilla, because she knows it was the book that swept Charlotte off her feet.

That is the thing. Even after all these years, she knows.

Every inch of Charlotte’s mind.

Every chamber of her heart.

It is easy, isn’t it, in retrospect?

To spot the cracks. To see them spread.

But in the moment, there is only the urge to mend each one.

To smooth the lines.

And keep the surface whole.