September 1st, 1984 — British Rail InterCity between Gsgow and Carlisle, Scotnd

  Second css was more than half filled. Edith looked out a rge window that allowed low September morning light to paint the blue and gray upholstery covering the rows of seats as suburbs gave way to a green ndscape.

  She’d have preferred that whoever was in charge of the train that would eventually take her—and many of the young men and women around her—to London had turned off the overhead lights. They weren’t as annoying as they had been when the train was still picking up speed. The flickering was gone, but the sterile illumination remained, and Edith much preferred the abundant natural lighting coming through all the rge panes of gss. Just looking at the fluorescent fixtures made her tired.

  Looking at the empty seat next to her made her sad.

  Even if it hadn’t been her birthday the day of Aric’s reappearance into her life would still be burned into her memory. And from that day until this morning they had been together. Not every second of every day—her logical mind was well aware of that. But in every other part of her consciousness their connection made it feel like they were a twin being. Like she was carrying two lives within her, his and hers. She’d wondered more than once if that was what it felt like to be pregnant, another human being growing inside her, nurtured by her body, and her love.

  Six month. Nearly full term.

  The thought made her smile, but the gesture never reached her eyes, which were still fixed on the empty seat next to her. And across from her.

  She would never have allowed a woman as beautiful as Delphine anywhere near her boyfriend in time past. She’d have fought tooth and nail against the very idea. So how was it that Edith mourned Delphine’s absence as well as Aric’s? Not as much, but enough. She’d been much younger when she’d left home for uni. She’d missed her sister Cre. But this was different.

  Carol was her best friend in the traditional sense. It had taken time to get to know each other through words and actions and time together. They’d shared stories eventually—aided by the effects of alcohol—about their early forays into the world of dating, or the differences between a rge Italian American family and a small English one. Carol’s stories about sharing a home with two parents, four brothers, and one bathroom had been equal parts appalling and hysterical.

  With Delphine—and Aric as moderator—it had been different. More subtle. Like different watercolors—blue and green—merging together until an interfused yer of turquoise bound them to each other. And to Aric.

  She’d been the first to leave, but Edith knew that by now Aric and Delphine must have boarded their own train to Victoria Station. They’d risen early. Friday had been for packing, tearful—and in Siobhán’s case longing—goodbyes, and sneaking Aric into their ft at night so they could all share the same starting point in the morning.

  “Qu’est-ce qu’elle va faire, nous mettre dehors?” Delphine asked. What’s she going to do, throw us out?

  Don Dreyer offered to drive them to the train station, and was deaf to any and all objections. It turned out he had ulterior motives.

  “Julian Faulkner is Professor of Physics and Astronomy at the University of Edinburgh. I talked to him and he thinks he might have a pce to offer you when you’re finished with Surrey. You could study there while we continue our work here.”

  “Did you tell him to wait and see Aric’s grades first?” Delphine asked pyfully.

  “What the devil?” Edith said in mock outrage as Delphine and Aric ughed.

  “His grades are fine,” Don weighed in. “He just needs to keep them up.”

  Why Edinburgh, not Gsgow? Edith had been tempted to ask. Studying under Don Dreyer seemed the natural choice.

  Too natural, she’d realized suddenly. Too much like Surrey. No chance to separate the student from the test subject. Edith had no idea whether they’d discussed it with Aric or if Ed and Don had simply handed him a fait accompli. What she did know was that both men had Aric’s best interests at heart. As did she.

  But her own heart was intimately tied to Aric’s. And even though it was still two years away, she already wondered what their life might look like. She didn’t doubt she could find a post at one of the city’s universities or colleges. She would teach while she pursued her own research. They’d find a ndlord willing to let them a ft together—though she was not above lying and saying they were married. Aric would graduate, and they would make it official. Then they would see where life took them. The world was filled with possibilities.

  She would miss Delphine terribly. Aric would too. Edith still bore the memory of finding her friend sobbing inconsobly in the weeks after Aric’s disappearance. She knew their move to Scotnd would be hard on her.

  But could Delphine really believe they would remain a trio until death did they part? Could any of them?

  She let her mind wander into a vague but happy future. Eventually the smell of steeping tea and warm milk powder drew her back to the lonely present—less lonely, perhaps, as the memories of futures past kept her company.

  Memories of futures past. That would make a good poem. For someone who knew how to write one.

  September 1st, 1984 — British Rail InterCity (no, not that one—the other one) between Gsgow and Carlisle, Scotnd

  Try as she might, Delphine could not keep her excitement in check. They were finally going to Min. She and Aric.

  It had taken seven months longer than she’d expected, and a great deal had changed since the day she’d first asked Edith for her permission to steal Aric away for a week.

  It had been a lie, of course. She hadn’t been pnning to steal Aric away for a week. Her pn had been to steal him away, full stop.

  It had seemed simple at the time. She’d pictured it in her mind so often that she’d begun to believe it could happen: a trip to a city where Aric would have to stay close to her if he wanted to understand what anyone was saying. Warm, sunlit days—cool enough for beautiful clothes, coats, and jackets without overheating. Evenings crisp enough that she could slip her arm through his as they walked between venues, sharing warmth as they drifted from one party to the next among models and moguls.

  At night—by some combination of overbooking and underestimation—they would be forced to share one room. And one bed. The first night would be entirely chaste. The second night, less so. By the third, she had been certain Aric would be entirely hers.

  Edith would be crushed, of course. There was no pretending otherwise. She would recover, in time. Things would be awkward in the b; no question Carol would take Edith’s side. Hank would be delighted. Carlos too—though he’d already begun transferring his affections to the muscur Bostonian.

  But that was then. And this was now.

  Ed Martell was twenty years younger now than he’d been then.

  The Christmas tree they’d dragged into the b had grown roots and stood outside Schuster Laboratory now, nearly twice as tall as the day it was cut down.

  Aric had absorbed a dozen nguages. He no longer needed her to transte in Min. Or Paris. Or Lisbon. Or anywhere.

  She’d heard Aric’s voice—his thoughts—in her mind. Edith’s too, on the rare occasions when both had been emotional, their defenses at an ebb.

  She’d flown.

  All her pns were broken.

  Thank God.

  The thought of hurting her adopted sister now was more than she could bear. It brought a sharp ache to her chest. And deceiving Aric that way—maniputing him—Sister Cécile might not have condemned her, but God certainly would have. How many years would she have spent in Purgatory for that sin?

  She’d been spared that. They all had.

  It dawned on her, as the train rumbled and vibrated its way toward London, that perhaps it had been God Himself who intervened that afternoon—using Aric as His instrument to save her from herself. To save all of them from her.

  Looking back now, she couldn’t believe she’d ever been that cruel. Her face still burned with shame when she thought about what she’d pnned.

  Aric sat beside her, reading his book, sipping occasionally from his cold coffee. She had long since stopped worrying that he could hear her thoughts.

  Let him hear them, she thought. Let him know how terrible a person I am.

  I was.

  Not anymore.

  Her current pn consisted of the few surviving elements of the old one. Seven runways for her: Armani, Versace, Ferré, Krizia, Missoni, an emerging designer she admired—and wanted to give exposure—named Moschino, and Valentino, whom she adored and who now showed only in Min and Rome.

  She would have chosen fewer, but they’d all called her personally and begged. In days past she would have brazenly bckmailed them, leaving the week with two suitcases full of clothes she’d shown.

  This year, she’d been more strategic—trading her time for a luxury hotel (two rooms), a private car for her and Aric, and the promise that he would experience firsthand what the male models endured in hair, makeup, and wardrobe. He would be stunning at the parties they attended.

  She would stick to him like glue if that was what he wanted or needed—but she hoped she could let him roam free, to enjoy the experience of being surrounded by men and women as beautiful as himself, no different from anyone else. Like he’d always wanted.

  She leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder, and reached across with her right hand to rub his arm, earning the attention she wanted. He turned, smiled, and set his book down.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked. It was one of his self-imposed mortal sins—reading her thoughts unbidden.

  “If you want to know what I’m thinking, just ask,” she’d told him many weeks ago. “I’ll tell you. But don’t ask if you’re not prepared to hear the answer.”

  He’d taken her up on that offer a few times—and he hadn’t wilted under the weight of the truth.

  “I’m thinking about how much fun we’re going to have in Min. I have so many people to introduce you to. You’ll finally get to see this part of my life—my other life.”

  He leaned his head back against the seat as he looked at her. They kept their voices low, though the car around them was noisy.

  “I’ve seen that part of your life,” he said. “In Cornwall. It was like you flipped a switch and this inner light poured out of you. You glowed.”

  She felt her face grow warm as he spoke. For more than a decade she’d had men tell her she was beautiful, but as she listened to his voice her heart swelled. She turned her head and kissed the fabric of his shoulder before whispering in his ear.

  “Not like you glowed. Not like that. Nothing on Earth looks like that. But this week will be different. No pictures on a windy coastline. This week is for elegance and finery—for parties and celebration, for fashion and art. I want you to imagine the entire week being arranged just for you—a gift, from me.”

  It sted only a moment, but long enough. For a heartbeat, the cabin grew quiet as Aric’s emotion poured out like warm air into a cold room. The wave of it sent a shiver through her. Then the moment passed.

  “I don’t know what to say. Except thank you, Elphie. That’s really sweet of you.”

  He’d started calling her that in Cornwall—and against all her expectations, she’d liked it.

  “I could arrange a thousand fashion weeks and still not pay you back for Cornwall,” she said. “How many women can say they flew like a kite?”

  He ughed softly, though she could tell he was still fighting his emotions.

  “No payment necessary. You know that. But thank you anyway.”

  I love you, she thought, as she looked into his eyes.

  1 September 1984 — 14:55 BST

  Euston Station, London, Engnd

  Edith perched on the edge of her luggage trolley, sipped her tea, and tried to ignore the busker who was butchering I Just Called to Say I Love You on his tarnished, dented saxophone.

  He reached the end at st, and she cpped out of relief—and gratitude for the return to wonderful silence—rather than appreciation. The precious five minutes of quiet were interrupted by two things: one wonderful, the other terrible.

  The wonderful: her connection to Aric and Delphine began to weave itself back into existence as their train approached its London destination.

  The terrible: the busker began to serenade Edith—and anyone with working ears within a hundred-foot radius—with his rendition of What’s Love Got to Do with It. Every time he hit the word what, he reached for a B-ft that, predictably, exceeded his grasp. The saxophone gave a strangled wheeze instead, the reed buzzing and some loose bit of metal inside rattling in sympathy, as if begging to be put out of its misery. By the second what, she was already turning her head and wincing in anticipation, bracing for each fresh assault like a patient under a dentist’s drill.

  There are few things that can halt London commuters in their tracks. An eight-gauge elephant gun is one. Two people ughing hysterically for no apparent reason is another.

  The InterCity was already braking hard for Victoria, but no one in the carriage was moving.

  Aric and Delphine had also felt the invisible thread come alive—but unlike Edith, their faces broke into wide grins as her situation, transmitted loud and clear through some combination of telepathy and discomfort, became obvious to them. Edith’s next wince and head-turn drew a pronounced snort from her beautiful friend, which caused Aric’s own ugh to change pitch and volume mid-stride. The pair fell against each other as Edith’s unspoken message flew through the ether:

  It’s not funny. This bloke is really bad.

  No one in their carriage was moving. All eyes were turned towards them. They had drawn enough attention just by being there; neither would have known a moment’s peace if they’d been traveling alone. But together they acted as a visible deterrent to advances from the opposite sex—like a plywood child at the entrance to a fairground ride announcing you must be this tall to ride. Anyone with eyes could see the bar that had to be cleared to earn the attention of either beautiful person.

  The entire train car continued to stare as the pair ughed so hard they grew slightly dizzy. Aric’s first words did nothing to lessen the merriment.

  “You snorted like a pig,” he said, wiping his eyes.

  “Ce cochon te mordra l’oreille si tu en parles à quelqu’un,” she replied, making a pyful attempt to nip at the endangered organ. This pig will bite your ear off if you tell anyone.

  Their voices broke the communal spell, and people remembered that they had pces to be, connections to make, meetings to attend. Aric and Delphine stood and retrieved their small travel cases—the rest of their luggage, Delphine promised, would find its own way to Min without their help.

  Their movement—and the reminder that she had to make her way to the Underground’s Northern line—drove Edith into action as well. She stood, tossed her mostly empty cup into the rubbish bin, and gripped the handlebars of her stacked trolley.

  At least I won’t have to listen to this any more, she sent to her two friends as she began to weave through the tide of travelers. She would have kept the connection alive longer, but a sudden wave of loneliness came over her, and she didn’t want Aric to know how much she was suffering from his—and Delphine’s—absence.

  Both her friends felt her shut them out, and what remained of the smiles on their faces evaporated quickly. Delphine reflexively took Aric’s hand, never realizing that it was an unconscious response to Edith’s sadness leaking through. Aric ced his fingers through hers and applied a slight pressure, as if to say, I’m here.

  They moved with the flow of the crowd as it exited the carriage. Several fellow passengers cast gnces their way, wondering where the attractive pair were bound. Aric was wondering that as well. Delphine had insisted on making all the arrangements, but had refused to share any of them with him.

  “Je veux que ce soit une surprise," she had said with a wide grin. I want it to be a surprise.

  It was another sort of mystery that Aric liked.

  1 September 1984 — 18:11 BST — Guildford, Engnd

  Edith opened the front door to her ft and left it open as she dragged her bags in.

  “Honey! I’m home!” she called to Carol, just in case her best friend was entertaining Carlos in her bedroom. The silence she received in response let her know that for the moment she was alone.

  She flopped down on the sofa and enjoyed a moment of complete stillness. The bags could wait—until tomorrow if she decided not to move from this spot. She’d only packed a few nice things that were already wrinkled at this point. A few more hours wouldn’t make it worse. She’d eaten in London, and wasn’t even close to being hungry yet.

  She stirred eventually, wandering into the small kitchen to turn on the kettle. Two half full wine bottles sat on the counter, two empty ones on the floor near the trash bin. One red, one white, each wearing a bel from Carlos’ family vineyard. Edith smiled as she pictured the pair—doing the domestic as she liked to call it. She hoped that her return didn’t crimp their style. Her own style was much more affected by her reappearance in Guildford.

  Aric and Delphine were well on their way now. She tried to calcute where they would be on their longer journey to Min but she ran out of mental energy—and interest. They were together, she was alone. Did the distance between them matter? Not really.

  She wondered if he would finally take her advice, and give Delphine what she wanted while they were in Min. She doubted it. Aric had balked at the idea, and Delphine’s reaction to them—Edith thought it was too high a hurdle to clear. She hoped that Elphie, as Aric liked to call her to get a rise out of her, found a measure of peace on the trip.

  What Aric discovered on the trip was a mystery to her.