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W atching her back disappear, Silas felt a rush of gladness, the happy comfort of seeing a familiar face.

The whole day felt like a dream; long hours of travel dissolving in the shock of his arrival at the farm.

He still couldn’t believe Ophelia was here, couldn’t stop drinking her in, reminding himself of her, revising the hundreds of mental images and remembered conversations he had stored away, and thumbed through in quiet moments.

Alongside the familiarity, he saw all the ways she was different than before.

The giddy coltishness he remembered was gone and her natural stillness felt heavier, despite the nervous energy emanating from her while they spoke.

Her formerly pale skin glowed healthily, and he noted the contrast when she fidgeted with her sleeve, revealing a slice of milky skin at the inside of her wrist.

Having resigned himself to the impossibility of seeing Ophelia again after he enlisted, he hadn’t let himself think about how he might explain his sudden departure for France or what she might have to say in return, but he saw that she was just as unsettled by the day’s turn of events.

He felt tongue-tied and awkward and longed for the easy conversations they had enjoyed in the past. Still amazed to find himself in the same room as her, he listened to her footsteps retreating down the cobbled passage and felt a heaviness lift in his chest. He had always liked the businesslike way Ophelia moved, and it made him happy to hear her boots tapping swiftly along again.

Whatever the reason they had been thrown together again, he was glad of it.

But how had she come to join the WLA? And what had happened to her father’s plans for her engagement?

He had so many questions about how she had arrived here.

The thrill of her proximity was tempered by worry, though.

He had to keep their being together from getting back to Merritt; the man had threatened to evict the Larkes from the farm should Silas continue their friendship, and here they were together again.

He remembered the early days of their friendship, the easy camaraderie that seemed to grow so quickly and naturally, and standing in the small room, her sharp footsteps fading away, felt the loss of that summer even more keenly.

Adjusting his braces, he moved to his satchel on the low bed, looking around to take in more of the room.

No matter the surprises the day had brought, he needed to keep his focus on restoring some semblance of what he had lost, what had been upended by the war.

He was still the eldest son, the head of the family; no one else could make up for the loss of his wholeness, the lack of strength in his leg, and the nightmares that hid in the darkest corners of his mind.

Now that he was relatively healed, his focus had to be on making something with the land, gaining strength in his leg, providing for his mother and brother and sister.

He had already lost so much time recuperating at the convalescent home.

Merritt’s blackmail still galled him, and he had spent a good deal of time wondering if Ophelia could have known anything about it.

But seeing her today, her cautious happiness at his arrival, he felt a relieved certainty that she knew nothing.

He pushed his hair back, raking it through his fingers and told himself that he needed to get in touch with the War Office.

Going AWOL wasn’t an option, but perhaps Singer could put in a word to reassign him to a different farm.

His commanding officer from the army had said he should send word if he ever needed anything, and Silas thought this qualified.

He’d send a telegram from the village tomorrow asking about the possibility.

Perhaps he could be on his way before he was forced to share anything about why he had enlisted.

Perhaps he could still protect both Ophelia and his family.

He undid the latch on his worn bag and deposited his few belongings onto the floral eiderdown.

A pair of trousers, a linen work shirt, knitted jumper, socks, thin cotton smalls, and a leather frame with a photo of his family, the frame edges worn smooth from handling, the photo already faded almost to white.

He opened the trunk at the foot of the bed and placed the small bundle of items and the empty satchel inside, closing the lid carefully.

Finished, he turned to the window, taking in the buildings in the dairy yard, noticing the warmth of the stone and the silvery, peeling planks of the doors, the weeds pushing up between the ancient cobblestones, the way the fields ran out, wide and rolling, to the feet of the sky.

The stillness of the barn and the scent of the horses and hay all around him felt familiar and homey, and he was suddenly incredibly tired.

Stretching out on the bed, its springs and iron fastenings creaking under his weight, Silas let his body be still, relaxing into rest, the dull ache of his ankle settling into a background hum.

His mind returned to Ophelia hovering in the doorway, the way her eyes skittered over his face, not settling precisely, but stopping at his eyes, then his mouth.

He remembered the way she had looked at him during the summer of their friendship; eager but shy, he had thought at the time.

Now he knew it was longing he had seen in her eyes, to be seen, recognized, understood.

Not alone anymore. Since the war, he had seen the same longing in his own eyes in the mirror every morning.

He mulled over everything, trying to parse out his feelings from the last few hours: relief to be away from Hartwood House, worry over how his leg would hold up to real work, shock and a punch of desire at seeing Ophelia again.

Away from the hubbub of his arrival, he allowed himself to go over everything.

Bess and Hannah had welcomed him with stiff politeness, obviously worried about his arrival, while Mrs. Darling had launched immediately into a list of reasons for why his help wasn’t necessary, nor were they women who needed a man’s assistance.

He wasn’t insulted or surprised by their resistance to his arrival; he could tell that they had an established rhythm and were not new to farm work.

He had been in the middle of explaining that he had no intention or desire to disrupt their work, nor any hand in where he was sent, when Ophelia had strode into the kitchen and nearly stopped his heart.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of her often since he had enlisted and left the farm, but he realized with sudden force that he hadn’t nearly remembered her correctly.

In his mind, she had been soft, almost girlish, but the woman who had entered the kitchen this morning was tall, close to lanky, and moved with the assurance of someone aware of their own capability.

Her hair had been mostly hidden under her kerchief, but wild pieces escaped against her cheeks and dark waves of it hung past her shoulders.

Silas had registered too late that he was staring, having realized he’d never seen her hair loose.

Her face was lightly tanned, her lips a little rough with the sun, the wide fringes of her lashes dark against the grey-blue of her eyes.

It had taken the crash of the crockery to break their stare, and by then a devastating blush had rushed up her neck and cheeks, and Silas wasn’t sure he would ever recover from that sight.

God, but she was beautiful, he thought and immediately pushed it away.

He was here to gain back some strength and lend a hand for the war, not to make eyes at a girl he had known years ago.

Besides, Ophelia seemed settled in an entirely new life now, having broken away from her father’s control and the unhappiness she had confided to Silas while they were friends.

She clearly didn’t need another friend, being surrounded by what he immediately recognized was a fierce posse of women.

In any case, he thought, resigned, he had even less to offer her now than when they had known each other before.

He was without land or work, damaged, body and mind, by the war; a man of little consequence who had failed to protect even his own family.