Conspiracy of Blood and Smoke

PART ONE

THE ATTACK

Strength lies not in defense but in attack.

—Adolf Hitler

1

THE GIRL KNOWN AS GRETCHEN WHITESTONE bicycled down the country lane. Desolate fields, their grasses winter-brown and glistening from the afternoon’s rainfall, stretched out on either side of the road. The first strains of twilight darkened the distant hills to black, and nearby a few muddy sheep grazed, pausing to gaze blank-eyed at Gretchen as she pedaled past.

Beyond the long line of poplar trees rose the Oxford Psychoanalytical Clinic, a stone lion of a building turning gray in the dusk. Gretchen coasted down the drive and stopped under the portico, leaving her bicycle leaning against a pillar. The front door handle was cold in her hand as she twisted it open and stepped inside.

Walking into the mental clinic’s reception hall felt like walking into a luxurious hotel lobby. The wood-paneled walls were dotted with watercolor paintings, the parquet floor covered with red Turkish carpets. The first time Gretchen had seen it, she’d been shocked, for she had expected stark white walls, men and women writhing in straitjackets, and the throbbing hum of an electric current machine. Her guardian had smiled at her confusion, saying the clinic was designed to treat its patients, not imprison them.

A nurse sat behind the front desk, going through a sheaf of papers. Good afternoon, Miss Whitestone, she said in the clipped accent that Gretchen had found so difficult to understand when she’d first arrived in England. Your father should be finished seeing patients for the day, so you may go right up.

Thank you. Gretchen didn’t bother correcting the nurse—Dr. Alfred Whitestone wasn’t her father; her real papa had been dead more than nine years—but it was best not to discuss the matter, and thus encourage questions that were too dangerous for her to answer. As far as the staff knew, she was an ordinary German immigrant who had been taken in by a kindly English family. If only the truth were that simple.

Gretchen hurried up the twisting stairwell to Alfred’s office. The third-floor corridor stretched out, its yellow-and-white tiled walls broken by a succession of closed doors. The patients were downstairs for their painting and flower-arranging therapeutic classes, so the place was quiet. A house of lunatics, Gretchen’s school friends had whispered, but she knew better. She’d spent too many years at her honorary uncle Dolf’s side not to recognize true darkness—and this was not it.

Just thinking of Adolf Hitler threw her heart against her ribs. Don’t, she ordered herself, walking faster. She hated the way he still crept into her head. Worrying about him was foolish: Hundreds of miles and the gray waters of the English Channel separated them. Even if he was looking for her, he’d never find her. She’d hidden herself too carefully for him to pick up her trail.

But she still had to pause outside the office door, waiting for her pulse to slow, before she knocked.

Come in! Her guardian sounded distracted; he was probably lost in a case study or a patient file, struggling to untie the dark knots in the minds of those he had pledged to help. Gretchen hoped that someday she could be half as accomplished a psychoanalyst as him.

Hello, Dr. Whitestone, Gretchen said, stepping into his office and squinting in the sudden muted light. A single green-shaded lamp burned, leaving most of the room in shadow. The doctor sat at his desk, tidying a stack of manila folders. I’ve just gotten back from town. The study session went well, she added, knowing he would ask, although it still seemed strange to have a parent who inquired about her schooling.

These conversations between the two of them had become a daily habit; she would stop by his office after school and they would chat for a few minutes before walking home together, leaving her bicycle at the clinic for her to pick up on her way to school the next morning. They rarely talked about anything but school or the clinic, but, even so, it was nice to have someone’s full attention and to know that if she did want to discuss something else, he was willing to listen.

Now, Gretchen, he said gently, we’ve been over this before. Please call me Alfred.

Gretchen flushed. Even though she’d been a member of the Whitestone household for seventeen months, she still sometimes forgot to call her guardian by his first name. Addressing an adult so informally—especially one she hadn’t known since girlhood—went against everything she’d been taught by her parents.

Most of her parents’ rules were wrong, she reminded herself, and forced a smile. Yes, Alfred.

His gaze held hers for a moment longer, his expression serious. I don’t make the request lightly. You’re my daughter in every sense of the word that matters.

Gretchen swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat, thinking of her father. He had never said such things to her, but she had known he had loved her by the way he danced with her around the kitchen or sat with her when she woke up from a nightmare. Loving Alfred wasn’t being disloyal to Papa, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. It was finding a way to keep living, no matter what happened. I know, she managed to say.

Whitestone blinked several times and turned away, busying himself with the folders in a filing cabinet. You said the study session went well?

Yes. Though the French exam will probably still be dreadful. Anyway, it’s half past six, and Julia must be frantic that the rolls have gone cold by now.

Poor Julia. Whitestone locked the cabinet and turned to Gretchen, smiling. Cold rolls were a long-running family joke—Alfred was frequently late to supper, and once had been so wrapped up in work that he’d forgotten about a lavish dinner party his wife was throwing, resulting in the infamous cold-as-rock rolls. We’d best get home, then, he added, ushering her out of the office.

Together, they started down the hall. Although Gretchen tried not to see them, she couldn’t help noticing the missing wall tiles, the scuff marks on the floor, the flickering bulbs in the electric light fixtures. Up here on the third floor, far from the probing gazes of potential patients and their families, the clinic’s meager finances showed themselves.

As their footsteps echoed up and down the hall, Gretchen glanced at Alfred. As always, he was his comfortable, dapper self: a thatch of black hair above a square of a face, dark eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles, and a blue suit that somehow managed to appear freshly pressed although it had been worn all day. He looked just the same as he had when they’d met months ago at her mother’s boardinghouse in Munich. Then he’d been a stranger on sabbatical, wishing to observe the psychological oddity of rising politician Adolf Hitler. He’d planned to write a profile on Hitler for a medical journal, one that would garner him enough professional acclaim that he’d be invited to serve on the staff of a prominent London hospital.

But he’d never written it. In order for her to be safe, she had to remain anonymous, which meant the Whitestones had to, as well. So Alfred had continued trudging along at his job at this mediocre clinic, and kept his article on Hitler locked in a desk drawer. Because he cared for her, she knew.

Do you ever regret it? she asked as they entered the stairwell. Staying here, I mean, when you could have gotten a job somewhere else.

Of course not. Whitestone spoke briskly. If I’d written about Hitler, we could have attracted a lot of attention. We mustn’t give anyone a reason to look at us too closely. Your safety is more important than anything.

What had she done to warrant such unwavering love and self-sacrifice from this family? There were no ties of blood or years of shared memories between them. But there was something deeper, something she hadn’t experienced until she’d met Daniel.

The thought of her beau relaxed the clenched muscles of her stomach. She pictured his eyes, brown mixed with gold, watching hers while he grinned, the left side of his mouth lifting higher than the right. It’s all right, she heard him saying in his sharp Berliner accent. Nobody but my family knows where we are, and they’ll never tell anyone. He would cup her chin in his hand, propelling her closer until their lips were almost touching, and say the words she desperately wanted to believe. We made it. You’ll never have to see Adolf Hitler again.

She needed him to be right. Because she knew if she and Uncle Dolf met again, he would have her killed immediately. If not for her blood sin of loving a Jew, then for the secret she’d uncovered about him. The one that had broken them apart. The thing that ripped her from sleep, night after night, leaving her gasping in the dark, pressing a hand over her mouth so nobody would hear her.

We should hurry, she said through numb lips. The boys must be hungry.

They collected spare mackintoshes, umbrellas, and galoshes from the front hall and set off across the damp fields. Light from the clinic’s windows tossed gold onto the ground, turning the drying raindrops to flecks of glitter. About two hundred yards away stood the Whitestones’ home, a large brick house perched alongside a rutted lane that gradually widened as it stretched into the city. On the back porch, Gretchen and Dr. Whitestone kicked off their galoshes, then stepped into the warm kitchen where Cook bustled over the Aga stove.

Get on with you, Cook grumbled. Keeping poor Mrs. Whitestone waiting these twenty minutes.

Gretchen tried not to smile. She found Cook’s complaints soothing, for she heard them at least a couple of times every week, but here no one ever sighed with disapproval or said one thing while meaning another. Unlike Mama.

Her stomach twisted. She joined Dr. Whitestone at the sink, gazing at the water sluicing across her hands until her worries about her mother slipped away.

Dr. Whitestone took Gretchen’s arm. Come along. There was a slight catch in his voice that made her peer at him, but his face was calm.

From the dining room, Gretchen caught a giggle and someone whispering, Hush! She frowned. Ordinarily, suppers at the Whitestones’ were noisy affairs, between her three foster brothers chattering about their day, Julia chiding them about their table manners, and the boys’ governess sighing into her soup about yet another stupid comment her beau from the greengrocer’s had made. The quiet felt unnatural.

Was something wrong? Gretchen hurried across the kitchen, hearing Papa’s old warning in her head: Silence means someone’s waiting to hurt you. Had something happened to Julia and the boys? She pushed the dining room door open, ready to run inside, and stopped short.

Paper streamers dangled from the chandelier. Candles flickered from Julia’s best silver candlesticks, which were set on the lace-trimmed tablecloth that normally came out only on Sundays and Christmas. A hand-printed sign reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRETCHEN—the boys’ work, no doubt; she recognized the shaky T as Jack’s—had been hung over the green-and-gold-striped wallpaper. Beaming under their party hats were Julia and her three sons, Colin, Andrew, and Jack, aged twelve, ten, and eight like stepping-stones, all flame-haired and freckled like their mother. Sitting next to Julia was Gretchen’s friend Mary. The governess must have been given the night off.

Happy birthday! they shouted.

But . . . Today wasn’t her birthday. She had turned eighteen back in July.

Then she saw Julia’s small frown. Of course. Her old self, Gretchen Müller, had been born on 18 July 1914. Gisela Schröder—the name on the false identity papers she’d bought in Switzerland two autumns ago, when she and Daniel had fled Germany—had been born seven months later, so today, 21 February 1933, was indeed her eighteenth birthday. She’d kept her real first name, reasoning that no one would look for her here, but she’d assumed parts of the fictitious Gisela’s identity, including her birth date, to fill in the holes in her own.

Confusion wrinkled Mary’s forehead, and the boys looked bewildered. They didn’t know who she truly was, or that it wasn’t her birthday. She had to react, and fast, before they started to wonder at her silence.

Thank you, she said. This is lovely. I’ve never had a birthday supper before. Last year, Julia had tried to give her one, but she’d declined, feeling uncomfortable at the thought of the Whitestones going to that much expense for her. Apparently, Julia hadn’t wanted to give her the chance to refuse again.

Never? The boys goggled and everybody laughed.

It isn’t just supper, Julia said. There will be presents and cake afterward.

Tonight she wore a patterned silk dress and had forced her hair into a sleek chignon, a marked change from her usual tweed skirts, lace-up shoes, and unruly curls. The boys wore their typical short trousers, kneesocks, and sweaters, but everything was clean, without a single stain or rip, practically a miracle in the rambunctious Whitestone household.

Something brilliant and warm unfolded in Gretchen’s chest. They had dressed up for her sake.

We have one surprise that won’t wait. Julia beamed. You can come in now, she called.

Gretchen’s heart leapt. She turned toward the doorway. In the hall beyond the dining room, she glimpsed a tall young man. He moved so fast toward her, he was little more than a blur of a black suit jacket and trousers. But she recognized the muscular line of his shoulders, the confident tilt of his head. Daniel. Everything within her blazed to life.

2

GRETCHEN DASHED TO HIM. HOW HAD HE MANAGED to come tonight? He was supposed to be at work, covering a society dance at a local country club for his newspaper. Before she could say a word, he had wrapped an arm around her, pulling her so close that she felt his heartbeat thudding through his jacket. Then he kissed her, a quick peck on the mouth. He pulled back, grinning.

Surprised? he asked. I traded assignments with another reporter. He’s at the country club tonight, poor soul. Daniel dipped his head low, brushing her ear with his lips so only she could hear him. Seeing you has made all the groveling worth it.

Having you here is the best birthday gift I can imagine. She stood in the circle of his arm, drinking him in even though she had long ago memorized the sharp planes of his face, the olive tint of his skin, the fall of his dark hair. There was nothing gentle or quiet about him—the first time she had caught sight of him, she had thought she had never seen such fierceness—but in his embrace, she felt protected. As though she could withstand anything, as long as they were together.

Alfred cleared his throat. I take it Daniel’s appearance is a success, then.

His words pulled Gretchen back to herself. Blushing, she slipped from Daniel’s embrace and introduced him to Mary. They shook hands, her friend’s smile faltering when she glanced at his left arm hanging rigidly by his side.

Gretchen caught her breath. Please don’t say anything, she silently begged. Daniel was still so self-conscious about his injury.

But Mary sat down without another word, and Gretchen exhaled in relief. There was no flush in Daniel’s cheeks as he seated himself across the table. He hadn’t noticed.

Mary nudged Gretchen and wiggled her eyebrows, mouthing, He’s so handsome! Gretchen managed a weak smile. At school tomorrow all of her friends would probably demand to know more about Daniel and why the devil she hadn’t introduced them. She’d have to come up with excuses to fob them off; she could hardly admit that she’d kept them apart on purpose, fearing she and Daniel would slip and say something about their old lives in Germany. Nobody could know who they really were or what they were hiding from.

As Cook came in with the soup, Julia turned to Daniel. Daniel, dear, how’s work?

About what you’d expect. The tips of his ears turned red. "I’m a reporter at the Oxford Mail, he explained to Mary. I write the society column."

In her lap, Gretchen’s hands tightened into fists, the fingernails cutting into her palms. Although Daniel’s tone was light, she knew how much the words cost him. Working as a society reporter at a daily tabloid was a steep fall from his old job back in Germany at the Munich Post. That paper was one of the last publications left that was unsympathetic to the burgeoning National Socialist Party, and its reporters had been writing investigative articles about Hitler for over a decade.

Every time Daniel had gone to the Post office, he had risked a beating, for Party storm troopers sometimes loitered outside, waiting for a chance to attack him and the other reporters. Despite the danger, Daniel had loved the work: He had believed that he was doing something important.

Now he wrote about high society folks’ clothes and balls and romances. It was a decent job, for it paid enough that he could afford a room in a lodging house in town, and he never went hungry.

He hated it.

The job is an excellent starting point, Alfred said quickly. Gretchen’s hands uncurled in her lap. Thank goodness for Alfred; he always knew what to say. Just you wait, Daniel—it won’t be long before you prove yourself and all the best editors in England are clamoring to hire you.

Daniel’s laugh was forced. Thanks, Dr. Whitestone. You’re very kind.

Then Jack started begging Daniel to tell him pirate stories, as he always did, and soon everyone was laughing at Daniel’s tale about Captain Jack sailing the seas, searching for buried treasure. Before Gretchen knew it, they’d eaten the roast beef, creamed potatoes, and peas and were sitting in the parlor, having cake while she opened presents.

She smiled over the hair ribbons and hand-drawn pictures from the boys and the bottle of perfume from Mary. She got a string of pearls, her first grown-up jewelry, from Alfred and Julia, and a German edition of her favorite book, Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha, from Daniel. He must have scoured the cramped bookshops on High Street to find it. She ran her hands over its leather cover, marveling at its softness, while the metal grille in the fireplace glowed red-hot. Faintly, she heard the telephone ring from the front hall.

Do you like it? Daniel nodded at the book. I remembered how sad you were that you had to leave your copy behind in Munich.

How had he remembered something so trivial? I love it, she said, smiling at him. It’s perfect.

He leaned closer. Did you see what Winston Churchill said in today’s paper about the debate at Oxford University?

She didn’t follow British politics as keenly as Daniel did, and it took her a moment to remember who Churchill was. He’d been a prominent politician during the Great War, but these days, he was a writer and a benchwarmer in the House of Commons, a position so inconsequential that he no longer had any say in policy decisions. The only reason she knew that much was because Daniel had to write about him for the society pages whenever he visited his cousin, the Duke of Marlborough, at nearby Blenheim Palace.

The debate? she asked, dredging through her memories. On the other side of the room, the boys had clustered around the coffee table, begging Julia for another slice of cake, and Alfred was asking Mary about school. Do you mean that talk at the university a couple of weeks ago?

Yes, when the students debated whether or not Englishmen have a responsibility to fight if there’s ever another world war. Daniel fished a newspaper clipping out of his pocket and handed it to her. Look what Churchill said about it.

She read the smudged newsprint:

Mr. Churchill recently spoke at a meeting of the Anti-Socialist and Anti-Communist Union, saying, My thoughts fasten on Germany, where the rumors about Jewish persecution and possible pogroms have grown louder since Mr. Hitler slunk into office last month. I understand the Nazis better than most in England, for I was recently in Munich, where the Nazis tried to bring about a meeting between me and their leader. Hitler wants war. And we ignore him at our peril.

It had happened at last, what Daniel had wanted for so long and despaired of ever hearing: an English politician had spoken scathingly about Germany’s new chancellor. When she and Daniel had first arrived in England, they’d been certain someone influential would listen to their warnings about Hitler. On his days off, Daniel had taken the train to London and loitered outside the Houses of Parliament. As soon as the politicians ambled out, he dashed after them, saying he had important information that would gravely affect their foreign relation policies.

A few of the men had stopped, listening with polite smiles, then thanked Daniel and advised him to write to his local MP instead. Most of them hadn’t broken stride. It had taken Daniel months to accept the truth: Nobody wanted to listen. They were too desperate to hold onto this fragile peace. Too worn down by the years of want and economic depression and hungry bellies. They would placate Hitler for the promise of quiet lives, full stomachs, steady jobs.

She looked up to find Daniel watching her. Finally, he said, someone in England understands how dangerous Hitler is.

At last, Gretchen said with relief, then paused, biting her lip. But everyone says he’s a has-been. What difference can he possibly make?

I don’t know. We could go to his house in Kent—that’s not so far away—and tell him what we know about Hitler. Daniel’s face lit up at the thought.

Gretchen’s heart sank. She had hoped that Daniel had finally accepted that English politicians weren’t interested in listening to them. Even if Mr. Churchill was willing to meet with them, he couldn’t have Hitler removed from his chancellorship post. The best thing she and Daniel could do for themselves was move on.

Can’t we forget about Hitler just for tonight? Gretchen said.

Daniel’s face fell. Of course. He took the clipping back, pasting on a smile. You deserve to be happy, especially on your birthday.

Cook appeared at the door. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Whitestone. The words squeezed out between each rapid breath. Mr. Cohen’s landlady just rang. Her gaze skittered to Daniel. She said she would have gotten word to you sooner, sir, but you were out of the office all afternoon on an assignment.

Daniel had been crumpling up the discarded wrapping paper. His left hand convulsed around the ball of red gift wrap, a sure sign that the damaged nerves beneath his skin were turning to fire. Why does she need to talk to me? What’s happened?

Gretchen went still.

You received a telegram, sir, Cook said. Her hands fluttered around her sides. Your landlady wouldn’t have thought anything of it except . . . Well, sir, it’s a foreign telegram. She hesitated. It’s from Germany.

A hush fell over the parlor. Daniel jumped up. His face had gone sheet-white. What did it say?

His voice was so hoarse, Gretchen scarcely recognized it. She understood his concern: Telegrams were expensive, and his family would only have paid for one if they had needed to get in touch with Daniel immediately. There was no one else in Germany who knew where he lived. Something important must have happened.

Nerves twisted in Gretchen’s stomach as she rose. Cook said, Mr. Cohen, your landlady didn’t want to read your mail. I’m afraid I’ve told you all I know.

Gretchen took Daniel’s good hand in hers, but he didn’t seem to notice, turning instead to Alfred and saying shakily, Please, can you take me back now? I need to see the telegram straightaway. He didn’t wait for Alfred’s response, glancing around the room, his eyes unfocused. I apologize for breaking up the party.

You must go at once, Gretchen said. Shall I come with you?

No. Stay, enjoy the party. When he leaned forward to press his mouth to her cheek, his touch felt so light she might have imagined it. I’m sure it’s nothing, he murmured in her ear. Maybe it’s good news. Perhaps one of my sisters is getting married.

Somehow she managed to pull her lips into a smile. Maybe, she agreed. Tell me as soon as you can.

He nodded and squeezed her hand. The flurry of leave-taking began: Cook fetching Daniel’s and Mary’s coats, everyone shaking hands and saying farewell, the little boys bouncing around like tops from too much cake and excitement. Then Daniel, Mary, and Alfred were gone, the front door creaking shut behind them. Gretchen stood in the parlor, listening to her guardian’s car rumble to life in the lane alongside the house, its tires crunching over the gravel drive as it took Daniel away.

That night, alone in her bedroom, she rested her head on the door. The smooth coolness of the wood was soothing. From down the hall, she heard the boys going to bed: the splash of water in a basin, the rustle of sheets being turned back, the low murmur of Julia’s voice as she read them a story.

Downstairs, Cook hummed as she scrubbed the supper dishes, and a sudden burst of static, followed by classical music, sounded from the parlor. Alfred must be listening to the wireless. When he’d returned from dropping off Daniel and Mary half an hour ago, she’d been waiting for him, desperate for news. But he’d shaken his head, saying Daniel had preferred to go to his room and read the telegram by himself. Surely he’d get in touch with her tomorrow.

Gretchen had nodded, her throat tightening. What could have happened? Was his family all right? She knew he missed them terribly. Sometimes he said that he felt as though he had no family anywhere, with his parents and sisters hundreds of miles away in Berlin. She understood how he felt: She had no real family left, either, except for her mother, since her father and brother, Reinhard, had been killed. With seventeen months of silence between her and Mama, she supposed they might as well be dead to each other, too.

She looked around her bedroom. It seemed the same, untouched by her nerves. Safe. She loved the feather bed covered by a flowered duvet, the simple maple wardrobe, the walls papered with pink roses, the cheap reproduction prints of all the artists Hitler despised: Klee, Kandinsky, and Picasso, the colors bright, the shapes surreal. They reminded her of a drawing she’d made in her primary school’s art class. When she’d shown it to Hitler, he’d sighed, saying, Whoever paints the sky green and the grass blue is feebleminded. She’d burst into tears and thrown it into the kitchen stove.

Well, he didn’t make her decisions anymore. She slipped her revolver out of her schoolbag and put it in the cardboard box on top of the wardrobe, where it was too high for the maid to dust.

It was a pity she couldn’t practice shooting, but she couldn’t risk her guardians finding out that she’d secretly bought the gun last summer with the pin money she’d made watching a neighbor’s children. They would never understand why she needed it. To her, owning a revolver was as necessary as air. When she’d been growing up in Hitler’s inner circle, she’d never met a Party man who didn’t carry a knife or a pistol. Uncle Dolf himself was one of the best marksmen in Munich and he had taught her how to shoot when she was small.

Her heart started to pound. But instead of sliding to the floor and covering her face with her hands, as she used to do, she stared at herself in the mirror and said the words that she forced herself to say every night. Adolf Hitler killed Papa.

Saying them didn’t change anything; Hitler had still gotten away with murdering her father nine years ago. All because Papa had known that Uncle Dolf had been diagnosed as a psychopath—a diagnosis that Gretchen doubted her father had believed—when they’d recovered at the same military hospital during the Great War. Hitler had been terrified that the information would destroy his burgeoning political career.

And so he’d shot Papa during a street fight between the National Socialists and the state police, gambling that no one would notice in the confusion. As usual, he’d been lucky. It wasn’t until two summers ago, when Gretchen had met Daniel and they had investigated her father’s death, that she’d realized the man she’d adored for years was a criminal.

Now she bit her lip to keep the tears at bay. Saying the truth didn’t change what had happened. But every time she said the words to herself, she felt stronger.

Since the last time she had seen Hitler, he had lost the presidential election, but the National Socialists had continued to surge in the polls, and last month President Hindenburg had appointed Hitler to the chancellorship, the second highest position in the country and his due as head of the largest political party in Germany. He was powerful now, more powerful than in the years she’d known him, except in one crucial way: He didn’t own her anymore.

She changed into her nightdress and snapped off the lamp, plunging the room into a blackness broken only by the slivers of moonlight showing through the curtain. Whatever news had been in Daniel’s telegram, she prayed it had nothing to do with the nightmares of their past.

3

DANIEL STILL HADN’T TELEPHONED BY THE TIME Gretchen left for school the next morning, and some of the tension melted from her shoulders. If the news had been dire, he would have told her. Everything must be all right.

When the dismissal bell rang, she slowly put her books in her schoolbag, wishing she didn’t have to leave. Here she always felt normal, surrounded by the simple majesty of science, the smooth logic of mathematics, the precision of Latin. Every question had an answer. Unlike the questions that tormented her about her old life.

As she wove between the girls in the corridor, she caught snatches of their conversations—tonight’s assignment on The Merchant of Venice, the French teacher’s too-tight blouse, the sixth-form girl who’d been caught in a pub with a university undergraduate—but the words brushed against her like butterflies’ wings, soft and barely felt. If only she could giggle and chatter as easily as the other girls. Sometimes forcing a laugh or a lighthearted comment required more energy than she could manage. She wasn’t like her classmates, and she never would be.

It didn’t matter, she told herself as reached the front hall. In a few months, she