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dead-end.’
    ‘So you lived there for days? Weeks?’
    ‘Longer than that. Spring tipped into summer. Later, the leaves turned gold on the trees. Still they did not find us. Later, the snows came. We thought they would leave, but they did not. They kept watch.’
    ‘Your brother,’ he said. ‘How did he cope with the winter?’
    ‘He did not,’ she said quietly. ‘The cold was in his bones, in his chest. He needed fresh air and sunlight and good food, the very things we could not give him.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘He never complained. Even when he was suffering, he bore it bravely.’
    Grief turned her brown eyes to black.
    ‘I could not save him,’ she said.

Chapter Eleven
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.
    Freddie knew how grief could creep up at any moment. He knew how the pain was as sharp as a needle under the skin. Then how, even as time went by, it became a dull ache, it was always there, always tugging at the corner of things. A familiar friend.
    ‘I could not save him,’ she said again.
    He understood how that played upon her mind. In the first months after George had been reported missing, the thought of his body lying unclaimed on the battlefield haunted him more than anything.
    Freddie never talked about George’s death. He didn’t admit to anyone how deeply he mourned his brother still.
    But, for the first time in more than a decade, Freddie wanted to speak. Needed to speak.
    ‘I, too, lost a brother,’ he said.
    This time, it was she who reached across the space between them. She took his hand. Her touch was so light, Freddie could hardly feel it.
Her skin was like tissue paper. The cloak slipped from her shoulders and he saw clearly she was wearing a long green dress with an old-fashioned belt. Attached to it was a leather pouch, like a purse or small bag. Such strange, out-of-date clothes.
    Freddie began to talk, slowly at first, then faster. Ten years and more of grief, of loss, of silence, came tumbling out. In the room, the fire crackled. Time seemed to stand still as he talked and talked.
    At last, there was nothing left to say. All emotion was spent. His head was empty. Freddie took a deep breath.
    ‘I’m sorry, I . . . I don’t know what came over me.’
    He felt, for a fleeting moment, the pressure of her fingers on the palm of his hand. Then, slowly, she withdrew.
    He was tired now, so tired. But he felt as if a weight had been taken from his shoulders.
    ‘All I meant to say, before . . . well. I was supposed to comfort you, not the other way around. I only wanted to let you know that I understood.’
    ‘I knew you were haunted already,’ she said softly. ‘How else could I speak to you?’
    Freddie wasn’t sure what she meant. ‘So,’ he
said, eager to make amends for his loss of control. ‘You saw out the winter. And, when it was over? You came back?’
    The look on her face stopped him. It struck him that he had disappointed her.
    ‘No one came back. Not one.’
    Freddie realised he had missed something. He knew she had lost her brother, but what of her parents? She, herself, was here after all.
    ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Some of you must have come back.’
    He saw her fists were clenched in her lap. He noticed how long her fingers were and how her nails were pale, not painted red like the modern fashion.
    ‘The soldiers were just waiting out the winter. When the thaw began, just when we dared to think we were safe, they moved against us.’
    Freddie still didn’t understand. He shook his head. The movement made his head spin. The whole room seemed to lurch. He suddenly realised he was more drunk than he had thought.
    ‘But here you are,’ he said. Even to his ears, the words sounded odd, as if he was speaking under water.
    Now Freddie was struggling to keep his head. There seemed to be two girls now, both looking
at him with their brown eyes. He needed a glass of water, or a strong coffee.
    He tried to stand up, but his legs didn’t obey