Maybe one day, Lyall can tell you the story of our last Valentine's Day as single friends, but I certainly can't. All I know is what he's told me, and I'm certain he left out certain parts which may have been embarrassing to me, or him, or to both of us. He said we returned home to rest and change into nicer clothing before meeting up at seven o'clock. So far, so good. He said we couldn't find a decent restaurant in the entirety of Cardiff, since it was Valentine's Day and a Saturday night, and he had been stupid enough (his words) not to make reservations in advance. He told me we ended up eating in a Muggle dive bar with a carpeted floor that reeked of stale beer, spilled soup, and (disturbingly) urine. Lyall said I had two glasses of wine, but the real reason I don't remember that night is because I tasted too much of his drinks and had no tolerance for hard liquor. He says no, we didn't dance, but there was music, and the band was off-key and possessed the rhythm of a toddler with a pot and wooden spoon. He says that as the drinks flowed, and the night wore on, I flirted so hard that even he could tell I was flirting, socially inept and inebriated as he was. He did give me some specifics, but let's leave some things to the imagination, shall we?

I do know that we took a taxi back to St. Dwynwyn's, and upon arriving well after my curfew, I staggered to the door with an arm around his shoulder and my heels wobbling from side to side on the pavement. Mrs. Owens answered the door, and she was not very happy to see me, especially not at eleven-thirty at night, clearly intoxicated and with a man.

On Sunday afternoon, after she and Mrs. Winchfill returned from church, I was summoned to a Private Meeting in the matrons' office. As I padded down the steps in my slippers, I paused before the door to Mabli's empty room. Her personal things had been cleared out, and the room was empty but for the bed, desk, dresser, mirror and Queen Anne chair. Pink lace curtains fluttered before her window; the wooden frame was too warped for the glass panes to shut completely. The room was several degrees colder than the rest of the house.

I stepped inside, and stood before her mirror, gazing from my pilling turtleneck sweater to my pleated skirt and dirty fleece slippers. My face was reddish and blotchy, and my hair was a mess. Several bobby pins were still stuck in flattened curls when I had awoken that morning with a bonfire raging inside my skull. I touched the scratched wood dresser, feeling Mabli's initials carved into the wood. A tendril of frozen wind snuck through the window and under my bathrobe, making me shiver.

"Godspeed," I whispered. "I'm sorry." The silence responded, accusing me without words.


In a windowless study, Mrs. Owens sat down in a padded desk chair, a steaming cup of tea and a book of hole-punched index cards before her. The book was open to a card with my name printed atop, and several lines of handwritten text beneath, which I couldn't make out. There was a second chair for Mrs. Winchfill, but she chose to stand behind Mrs. Owens, towering over me. She was nearly six feet tall. I sat on a low stool before the desk, my legs crossed, trying to look as innocent and wholesome as possible. To avoid making eye contact with the matrons, my gaze was fixed on a framed oil painting behind them that depicted a countryside church in a field of sunflowers.

"I was very concerned when you didn't arrive by curfew last night," Mrs. Owens complained. "I was so worried, I thought we might have to call the police! And think of how upset your parents would be!"

"I'm incredibly disappointed," said Mrs. Winchfill. "How a young lady like you could be so inconsiderate—"

"Not to mention, your safety—"

"Inconsiderate, foolish, completely lacking in moral judgment—"

(Here, a sixteen-year-old Remus would have said something like, "Maybe I don't want moral judgment. Maybe I like being immoral," and then fixed me with a How-are-you-going-to-reply-to-that expression.)

"I was so certain that something must have happened to you, because Mrs. Winchfill and I know you to be more responsible than that!"

"And that's completely neglecting the alcohol," sniffed Mrs. Winchfill. She looked mad with sadistic glee.

"Oh yes, the drinking," said Mrs. Owens, shaking her round head. She adjusted a beaded strap attached to the buggy eyeglasses that magnified her pupils into dinner plates. "Hope, I simply don't know what to say. We don't know what to say."

"I expected better from you," said Mrs. Winchfill coldly. "There are some girls who have lived in this house, over the years, who have demonstrated this kind of behaviour—now I won't name names—but those girls tend not to have stayed for long. We have a code of conduct here, and you are well aware that you have broken at least, I say at least, two major rules."

Mrs. Owens opened a desk drawer and removed a porcelain bowl of sugar cubes topped with candy rosettes. She dropped two cubes into her teacup, and stirred vigorously.

"I think," Mrs. Winchfill continued, "that we have no choice but to implement consequences We just can't have this egregiously indecent behaviour go unchecked."

I blanched. "I'm very, very sorry," I insisted. "This is really the first time—"

"It's not the first time you've been late for curfew, Hope," interrupted Mrs. Owens. She glanced down at the index card and ran one finger across a line of text "On September twenty-seventh, you were two hours late for curfew. Now, we didn't say anything at the time, because your sister didn't know the house rules—"

"Even though they were well explained when she arrived," snorted Mrs. Winchfill.

"And then, there was another time—December fourteenth, here it is—when you were here fifteen minutes past the curfew. Not as bad as last night, but..." Mrs. Owens pursed her lips, and exhaled heavily through her nose.

"And there really is no excuse for your drinking," said Mrs. Winchfill. "I don't know what's gotten into you...I know Irene said you were going out with some boy who might be a bad influence."

"Irene said what?" I spluttered, my trembling hands curling into fists. "What would she know about my—my personal life?!"

Mrs. Winchfill smiled cruelly. "The walls have eyes and ears, Hope. Now you see why it's so important for a young lady to maintain her reputation. That's why we keep our standards so high."

The painting of sunflowers on the wall had a cheap quality to it, like a postcard in a rundown gift shop. The petals were sloppy. The country church was weirdly proportioned, and the sloping walls and windows of the side wall didn't meet up at the vanishing point.

"I think two weeks of bathroom duty should suffice," said Mrs. Owens. "And, of course, helping to clean the table after meals."

"Now, now, Mrs. Owens—I know you have a kind heart, but it's most important that Hope learn her lesson properly, so she never gets herself into serious trouble. This is not simply an issue of lateness, but of impropriety with a young man, involving alcohol!" remonstrated Mrs. Winchfill. "I would suggest three weeks of bathroom duty—"

An involuntary mental image of the shower's drain, clogged with slimy long hairs and ringed with green mildew, twisted my features into a rictus of disgust.

"—and a telephone call to your father, as well," she finished.

"No. No, please—I'm sorry, I'll do the powder room as well, please don't—" I pleaded.

"It must be done," said Mrs. Owens sadly. "We wouldn't want him to find out about what happened through a third party...and even though it casts St. Dwynwyn's in a very bad light..."

"Is this because of Irene? What exactly did she say about me?!" I demanded.
"Calm down," said Mrs. Winchfill. "There's no use getting worked up about it. You can't change the past, but let's hope that the consequences will prevent you from making such poor decisions again."

"It's really for your own good," explained Mrs. Owens. "We want to make sure you won't do anything that might affect your chances of getting married one day. Irene was only concerned that you might‚—"

"She was not concerned!" I said shrilly. "She's making things up—making things up again—"

Mrs. Winchfill shook her long, narrow head. Lamplight glinted off her gold clip-on earrings.

"Now, now, Hope. Don't make things worse for yourself. Surely you can see how your own actions have led to today."

Tears burned my eyes. It was one thing to be on bathroom duty for three weeks—but for the matrons to call my father... and there was no telling how badly they would exaggerate about my misdemeanours. The worst part was that I might be ruining Jeannie's chances of ever moving out. If my parents thought that even a respectable women's boarding house couldn't, or wouldn't supervise me properly, there was no way they would allow Jeannie to leave home.

I startled at the touch of a warm, wrinkled hand with an icy-cold ring against my own Mrs. Owens was leaning forward to pat my hand, her crucifix necklace dangling above her scalloped collar.

"I understand your worries, Hope," said Mrs. Owens. "I know your father is very concerned with your safety, and he would be terribly upset—"

"Angry, even—" added Mrs. Winchfill.

"—to hear that you had been out with a man, drinking to excess, late at night, past your curfew. Perhaps Mrs. Winchfill and I could find some substitute punishment—"

"Well, it would still have to address the seriousness of the rules violation, of course," said Mrs. Winchfill. "But, naturally, we wouldn't want to spread any kind of information that might damage the reputation of this house. Mrs. Owens and I have worked very hard at maintaining St. Dwynwyn's as a respite and home for young ladies of good character for over twenty-years, and certainly, we are not eager to ruin the good opinion of our friends and neighbours."

Puzzle pieces were starting to fit together in my mind.

"There's a great deal of clerical work to be done in here," said Mrs. Owens, patting a filing cabinet behind her with weird affection. "Mrs. Winchfill and I were intending to clear out the old files, and make sure the new ones are up to date, but life is just so busy, and we haven't gotten around to it yet..."

Of course, they didn't want to call my father. Why would they risk upsetting their connection to Aberystwyth, knowing that my parents had plenty of friends with young daughters thinking of relocating to Cardiff for work?

Mrs. Winchfill cleared her throat significantly. "But of course," she added, "since this is a necessary consequence for your behaviour last night, Mrs. Owens and I expect you to complete all the necessary filing and paperwork during your evening free times this week. We will expect the job to be finished by next Friday."

So that's what they wanted. Just a free secretary. Well, I suppose it wasn't as awful as a call home...but then again, it felt uncomfortably like they had agreed on my punishment before I even committed the crime. It was almost as though they had been waiting for me to slip up just to exploit me for unpaid work. Was Mrs. Winchfill really that lazy? I could believe Mrs. Owens was, but Mrs. Winchfill always gave off an impression of Puritanical productivity and diligence. She arose at six o'clock in the morning every day and took a brisk walk around the block, regardless of the weather. By a quarter to seven, Mrs. Winchfill was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast and listening to the BBC Home Service. I often saw her bicycling to and from St. Dwynwyn's with a basket of vegetables, or a stack of church programmes, her posture upright and stiff as a board, even when she rounded a corner.

"Well, Hope. I believe Mrs. Owens and I have made ourselves clear. There will be no further tolerance for this kind of inexcusable and inappropriate behaviour. Do you understand?" Her grey eyes drilled into mine.

"Yes, mam," I said, trying to keep the relief out of my voice.

"We will call you down to the study once I've decided what I'd like you to work on," said Mrs. Owens. She sipped her sugary tea. "I think it will have to wait until later this evening, when I've gotten organized."

"And don't forget the bathrooms. Three weeks. They need to be cleaned twice a day," said Mrs. Winchfill. "There is more baking soda available in the kitchen, as needed."

"Yes, mam."

The two matrons looked at one another, Mrs. Owens straining her neck up from her chair and Mrs. Winchfill gazing down the bridge of her long, straight nose. Mrs. Winchfill looked back at me, and shook her head disdainfully.

"This is will not be a repeat occurance. You may be excused."


I was lying on my bed with a cool, wet washcloth over my eyes, trying to sleep away my hangover, when I heard a gentle knock on my bedroom door.

"It's open," I croaked, rubbing my temples. I folded half the washcloth up over itself, so that my forehead remained underneath the damp terrycloth without covering my eyes.

The door opened quietly, and Edith stepped in, carrying a small brown paper package. She hardly ever spoke to me (or anyone else, for that matter); I was surprised enough to sit up at once, causing the washcloth to fall down onto my lap.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," said Edith. "I can see you aren't feeling well."

"I'm alright," I muttered, not wishing to draw any more attention to the events of last night than the matrons already had.

"There's a package for you," she said. "It was dropped off in the mailbox."

"For me?" I asked, feeling my pulse quicken. I could see no stamp on the package, which made me suspect...

"Yes." She placed it on my dresser gently. I noticed that her nails were painted a cloudy shade of pale pink. Edith normally wore no make-up.

"Thank you, Edith."

"You're welcome," she said. Edith stepped backwards into the hall, and closed the door, making sure to release the door knob gently enough that the latch bolt made hardly a click. Wouldn't it be nice if all my housemates were like Edith?, I thought absently. We would never be real friends, but she was certainly no trouble to live with, none at all. I was starting to suspect that perhaps Norah and Mabli had been pulling my leg. There was no way a little dormouse like her was having an affair with a married man, let alone her professor.

I picked up the package. It was very light. I nearly squealed when I saw my name and address were written on it in Lyall's precise cursive letters. Shreds of brown paper landed on my bedspread and the floor as I tore the package open. There were many layers of paper—that's why it was so light. What was the paper protecting?

Ah. It was a tiny glass bottle, the size of a standard wine cork, and stoppered with its own miniature cork. The liquid inside was dark blue, almost black. It looked like ink, but when I tipped the bottle from side to side, the fluid rolled slowly, viscously, and coated the glass. I was wondering what on Earth it was when I noticed a small envelope that had fallen onto my bed.

Creamy, smooth parchment—how I loved the stationery he used! I got up to retrieve a letter knife from my desk, and felt a wave of pain knock my head about, as though something heavy were clunking around inside my brain.

"Ughgh," I groaned.

I slit open the envelope and read the letter.

Dear Hope,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, but I suspect not. I take full responsibility for your getting home so late last night, and in such bad condition. It was completely my fault—I shouldn't have let you have so much of my drink, when of course, its effects are so much stronger on you than me. Please allow me to apologize by way of this little 'elixir vita.' Drink the entire contents of the bottle, and I assure you that your physical ailments will be much improved. The taste is despicable beyond belief, but it really works. I suggest a cup of juice afterwards, to remove all traces of the flavour. My friend Ogilvy actually takes his with whiskey, but I think that might defeat the very purpose of the endeavour, and is certainly not an option for you.

With high hopes for your swift recovery,

Lyall

It didn't look like any medicine I had ever heard of, and there was no label. I had already taken paracetamol—was it alright to drink this 'elixir vita'? I swished the bottle suspiciously, watching the contents roll leisurely back and forth. A smart person would hold off on drinking a mysterious substance until they at least knew what the medicinal ingredients were...but my head was the anvil in a blacksmith's workshop, and Lyall had never done me wrong, had he?

I uncorked the bottle and raised it to my mouth, then paused.

The taste is despicable beyond belief.

Re-corking the bottle, I headed downstairs to the kitchen, hoping nobody else would see me along the way and ask any uncomfortable questions about the mystery substance. I peeked into the kitchen from down the hall, at the base of the stairs. Victory! Nobody was inside. I snuck over to the icebox and poured myself a glass of Irene's special sweet tea. Stuff her. I hoped she keeled over and died of a heart attack the instant she found her pitcher a quarter-empty.

I opened the tiny bottle again, and held it up to my nose. No discernable smell. Might as well just get it over with, I thought, and drank the whole bottle in one swig.

God almighty, the taste was—it tasted like—like an overrun sewer, like a baby's nappy after they started solid foods, like Val's moldy face cream jars left open to rot in the steamy bathroom. Like swallowing a mouthful of baking powder mixed with stewed kale and rabbit droppings.

I gagged loudly, and gulped down the entire glass of iced tea in record time. Iced tea dripped down the sides of my mouth, slid around my chin and down my neck. Then I spat rabidly into the sink. After wiping my face with a napkin, I felt better. Actually, I felt much better—my head felt airy and clear, light as a feather. There was a spring in my step. The mental fog had cleared, and my mind was bright and sharp, like a shiny new kitchen knife.

"It really does work," I murmured. "Wow." What kind of medicine cured a person instantly, and why was anyone still taking paracetamol or aspirin and hoping for the best? Surely, despite the flavour, this stuff would fly off the chemist's shelves if people knew how effective it was. I didn't climb so much as float up the stairs; back in my room, I had no desire to return to bed.

I pulled out Lyall's letter again, and reread it. I liked the shape of his handwriting, and the little ink splotches that formed wherever he had paused with his pen against the paper. He had mentioned that he sometimes worked at home, in his study; I imagined a room lined with books from floor to ceiling, smelling of aged paper and the chemical tang of ink. In the leather journal Lyall had given me for Christmas back in '57, I wrote feverishly about how kind was to have thought of me the morning after our night out, and how very much I wished he would think of me more often. Those journals would be kept in a cardboard box in various attics, closets and cellars for the next twenty-two years, travelling across Britain as Lyall, Remus, and I uprooted ourselves time and time again. Sometimes, I would pull out my old journals and read the entries about Lyall aloud to him in bed, and he would laugh and tell me he had been much, much worse, but thank goodness he had had the wisdom to never write any of it down. And then he would kiss me.

Which brings us to February 21st, 1959. Stop giggling, I won't tell you a thing until you keep a straight face.


On Thursday, we had made plans over the telephone to meet up on Saturday at noon. If the weather was bad, we would go to the National Museum, and if the weather was good, we would try to take a walk outside.

I woke up early on Saturday morning, to finish up the filing that I was supposed to have completed on Friday night. When I had stuffed my last receipt into a properly-dated envelope, I tiptoed out of the matrons' study and back upstairs, to avoid waking anyone.

Back in my room, I opened the window and felt a surprisingly mild breeze. The ice-encrusted branches of the tree outside were dripping, and people were walking down the pavement with their scarves loosened and gloves removed. I tried on several outfits, each one feeling 'not quite right' for my afternoon with Lyall. A grey wool dress with a pussy bow landed on my bed; three circle skirts were shoved back into the closet; I pulled off a starchy blouse that buttoned up on the side and tossed it, inverted, onto the laundry hamper. The room was starting to look like my shared bedroom with Jeannie in Aberystwyth; she never got dressed for school in the morning without upending our closet and tearfully complaining that she had absolutely nothing decent to wear.

At a quarter to eight, the kitchen's warning bell clanged. I needed to be brushed, made-up, washed and downstairs for breakfast within fifteen minutes, so I decided on a cornflower blue worsted wool dress with a shawl collar and a narrow belt that matched. Jeannie said I should wear more blue because it complemented my eyes. I'll always remember that dress; it was one of my favourites, and I kept it forever, even long after it no longer fit my post-pregnancy waist.

I had absolutely no intention of cleaning the bathroom in that dress. It would just have to wait until after I returned from my outing with Lyall. And anyways, I could hear the gushing water rolling through the pipes; somebody was taking a shower, so I couldn't clean it, even if I wanted to.

After breakfast (brown toast, eggs and Cornish potato cakes with lukewarm coffee), I made some attempt at tidying my room. I also had to Hoover the living room and dining room, as per my usual chores. Mrs. Owens sat on the sofa with her embroidery hoop and thread, and watched me carefully Hoover around her feet with some amusement.

Lyall rang the doorbell at exactly noon. When I opened the door, I could immediately tell that something was off about him; he looked anxious and pale. His hands were clasped before him, and he was rhythmically squeezing his own fingers.

"Hi," I said, smiling. "You're very punctual."

"Am I." He looked down at the welcome mat. "It's very nice out. I thought we might skip the museum."

"Yes, I agree." I stepped outside and closed the door behind me, feeling quite refreshed to be out of doors and away from St. Dwynwyn's for the afternoon. The unseasonably warm air tickled my face and drew a strand of hair out from my ponytail.

"I know it might get cold later on, but I, er, I'd like to go to the park. If that's alright with you."

"Yes, of course," I assured him. "I think that's just the thing."

I didn't know what would happen, but I felt different that day; the world seemed to quiver about us, almost shimmering. A man unloaded crates of bottled milk from a truck and wheeled them into a shop, and a lady walked by us pushing a pram; three squirrels got into a squabble over a crust of bread; but they all seemed unreal, oversaturated with colour and possessed of exquisite detail. The sensation was like playing with an amazingly realistic dollhouse, with doors and windows that swing open on tiny hinges and wonderful replicas of real objects, each more colourful and intricately detailed than the last. I felt good and awful at the same time. The tension made my skin feel too tight on my body.

We entered a park, and strolled down a path through a ravine. I became aware that I was chatting to Lyall about all manner of trivial things, and he was hardly saying a word.

"I'm sorry. I must be boring you terribly," I confessed. "I don't know what's gotten into me—"

"No, no, I'm not—" he glanced at me sideways, and then returned his gaze to the path before us. "I'm not bored.

"I hardly let you say anything. I'll stop now."

"It's alright," said Lyall softly. "I don't mind when you talk. I like your stories."

We passed through a thicket of dark, leafless trees whose branches were knit together overhead. Skins of ice were thinning and softening above partially frozen puddles. I caught my reflection in one, but the view wasn't very flattering from underneath my skirt. I noticed Lyall looking about, scanning the park, but I didn't know what for. When the path forked off into two trails, we paused and stood before the juncture. The sounds of children laughing echoed down from the path sloping uphill through a yellowed field half-covered in snow; it boasted wildflowers in the warmer months.

Lyall nodded towards the other path, which curved to the left, through a copse of silver birch trees stretching towards the cloudy sky.

"Shall we go that way?"

"Anywhere you like," I replied.

Four or five minutes into the copse of silver birch, we reached a wooden bench set back from the path. It was painted brown, but much of the paint had flaked off, and initials were carved into the seat.

"Do you mind if we sit down," said Lyall stiffly. It didn't sound like a question and the bench wasn't wet, so I acquiesced. He sat down next to me, leaving a decent berth between us. Lyall pulled off his leather gloves, and folded his hands in his lap. I wanted to hold my hand next to his, to see the contrast in our skin colours—mine ivory, his golden brown—but I sat still.

"So, I, er, I have some good news," said Lyall, in a tone of voice that didn't exactly sound like good news. His voice was shaky and light, like a dried-up leaf that could blow away any moment.

"Oh?"

"I've been offered a new job," he said. "A better one."

"That's wonderful!" I cried. "Congratulations."

"Yes, it would be, er...a substantial raise in pay, as well."

"That's lovely," I said. "Is it with a university? Are you going to be a professor?"

He opened his mouth, paused, and then said, "Well, no. It's more like a...a publisher. Of educational texts. But they do research as well..."

"Well, you must be so excited," I said, though I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. "When do you start?"

He sighed. "Well, that's the thing. I haven't accepted the position yet."

"Why not?" I asked.

He bit his lip before replying. "The new job is in Glasgow. I would have to move."

My heart sank into my stomach and my throat caved in. I tried to neutralize my facial expression, but I felt numb. The temperature seemed to drop by twenty degrees.

"So, er...that's the concern," Lyall added.

I regained enough composure to say, "I didn't know you like Cardiff so much," in an unnaturally shrill voice.

He made a noncommittal sound.

Mentally, I raced through every possible way to discourage him without discouraging him—and then immediately felt guilty for being so selfish. How could I possibly prevent him from moving his career forward, just because I was lonely and bored in Cardiff?

Lyall had removed his handkerchief from inside his overcoat, and he was kneading it in his lap.

"Well, I—" his voice faltered. "I don't really like Cardiff that much. As a city, I mean."

"But you don't want to live in Glasgow?" I asked.

"No, it's just that I, er...I've grown very fond of you, and it would be a shame if, if I couldn't see you anymore." He said all this while staring at his lap.

A school of fish materialized in my stomach, and started to swim around in manic circles. Some automatic and involuntary part of my brain responsible for polite social discourse and ladylike comportment responded with, "Oh, Lyall. I'm very flattered. But I would hate for you to miss out on such a wonderful opportunity on my account," or something to that effect. I wasn't really listening to myself.

"Well, actually, I was, er, I was thinking that...that actually, I would accept the job in Glasgow, and that you could come with me."

What?

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," I said. "What do you mean, 'come with you'?"

"To Glasgow," he said, opaquely, and then quickly added, "But we would get married first, of course."

I looked at the silver birches, silent in the melting snow. They contained no answers; every branch, only another question.

"Lyall," I said quietly, "are you asking me to marry you?"

He exhaled shakily, like a nervous laugh. "In a...roundabout sort of way, yes."

"Are you in love with me?" I blurted out.

"Yes, of course," he said, as if it were the most mundane fact in the world.

"But..." I leaned back against the bench, reeling. The world was spinning. From off in the distance, I heard the screams of excited children echoing through the trees. "But you never said anything!"

The creases at the corners of his eyes were deepening, and his forehead tightened. He looked sad.

Faintly, he said, "I had thought it...obvious."

When I didn't respond immediately, he added, "I suppose I believed my feelings were reciprocated, at least somewhat. I'm sorry if I was mistaken. I shouldn't have said anything."

"Lyall—"

"It was completely inappropriate, and I apologize. Just—just forget it. I won't bother you about it again." He failed to conceal the hardened rind of bitterness in his voice.

I took a deep breath of the cool air. Later on, I would wonder why I hadn't taken any time to think—to consider the options, to ask myself what my plans for the future were, or whether I was ready, or how well I really knew him. Dirty nappies and piles of laundry, silent dinners, arguing over Remus's schooling, in-laws, dishes left for me to clean up, accusations that I wasn't trying hard enough, or he wasn't trying hard enough, or that I needed to cut him some slack, or that he needed to see a soulstress for his obvious issues, or whether we had really tried every treatment for the cancer, or Remus refusing to sleep in his own bed... none of those things existed in that moment in the ravine.

Instead of thinking, I said, "But they are, and you weren't, and it wasn't!"

Lyall blinked. "Wasn't—didn't what?"

"Your feelings...they are reciprocated. And you weren't wrong. And it wasn't inappropriate!"

His face flickered through several micro-expressions before settling on one of apprehension, with a trace of hope.

"Are you—are you saying...that you want..."

"I want to move to Glasgow with you," I stated, as though it were a fact from a textbook. "And marry you. And everything else."

"Hope," he said. He turned and looked me—really looked at me this time, and made eye contact with me for the first time all day. His face had softened, and his brown eyes were liquid, like melted chocolates. "Do you really mean that?"

"I do mean it, Lyall," I said, feeling more shy now that he was looking at me. "I just—I really didn't know you were going to say that. You surprised me."

He grinned so widely that I could see all of his upper teeth. "I know I should have done it another way. But that's how it came out."

I giggled. "It's okay. I'm glad you said it, and I don't care how!"

Lyall laughed. "You've made me very happy," he said. "Very, very happy. Can you tell?"

I nodded, and broke into a smile at the sight of Lyall's beaming face. He looked happier than I had ever seen him. He had released his wrinkled handkerchief, and it had fallen onto his lap Lyall glanced at it, shook his head, and left it there.

"You look ten years younger when you smile, you know," I said.

"I guess I'm going to look very young, then. I might just be mistaken for a teenager. Because of you."

I felt my eyes brim with tears. I tried to restrain myself, but one tear slid down my cheek and landed on the collar of my coat.

Lyall's brows knit together in a look of pity. "Oh no, don't cry, Hope. Please don't cry on my account."

"I'm not upset," I said, my voice husky. "I'm just...they're happy tears, I promise."

He picked up his handkerchief and leaned close to me, dabbing his kerchief under my eyes. I sniffled, and shuffled closer to him.

"Don't cry," he repeated. "Look. I brought you something." He removed a small black velvet box from his pocket.

"Oh my goodness," I whispered, as he opened it before me.

"It's rose gold," he said, "fourteen karats, and that's a real diamond. I thought you'd like the setting. It's an antique Art Nouveau design, from the 1910s."

I've worn that ring every day of my life since that that afternoon, and I could describe it to you with my eyes closed. Two arms of rose gold extending from opposite directions, ending in a botanical flourish twisted around a round-cut diamond, like a berry hidden between leaves.

"Can I touch it?" I whispered.

"Go on," said Lyall. "Let me see it on you." He plucked the ring from its velvet casing and slid it onto my finger, brushing his fingers against mine as he withdrew his hand.

The ring fit perfectly. I held up my hand before us, so we could admire the curlicues of pink gold.

I sniffed again, and a tear dripped from my other eye. How on earth could he have spent so much money on me?

"Do you like it?"

"It's beautiful," I whispered. "More than that. I never wore something so beautiful in my entire life."

He wiped a tear from my cheek with his handkerchief. "Do you want to keep it?" he asked.

"Very much," I breathed.

Lyall smiled at me, and I felt melted and soggy inside, like a warm puddle. I him to hug me more than anything, but I was too shy to ask.

"Do you want to keep me too?" he said, only in partial jest.

"Oh, Lyall. You know I do."


We walked through a silvery palace of birch trees, each white column adorned with sparkling gems of ice. The gritty pavement below us felt like a velvet carpet. Lyall held my hand in his. He kept rubbing my ring with the pad of his thumb, as if he were checking that it was still there.

I took a deep breath as we passed underneath a low-hanging branch. "There's something I should say," I told him. "It's...kind of important if we're to be married."

"Go on," he said, with some trepidation.

"It's that—I want to have a family," I said. "I mean...with children."

"I want that too," Lyall replied softly.

"With me?"

He chuckled. "Who better?"

A smile stretched between my ears. "And I want you to meet my family," I continued. "I know you've met Jeannie, but I want to introduce you to my parents, and everyone else."

"Of course."

"And I want to meet your family."

Lyall sucked in a breath. We paused, and I turned to face him.

"What is it?" I said. His face was unreadable.

"Nothing," said Lyall. "Of course you'll meet my family. When do you want to get married?"

"Hmm..." I looked up at the criss-crossing branches overhead, wondering how soon I could realistically get out of St. Dwynwyn's without eloping at city hall. "When would you have to begin your new job? Because I really don't want to stay in Cardiff while you're living in Glasgow."

"No, no," he assured me. "I guess I could push it back as far as July...but maybe that's too soon, if you're set on a fancy wedding."

I traced a button on his overcoat, feeling its grooves and divots. "Lyall, I know this might not be realistic," I began.

"But?" He smiled down at me, and I bit my lip to keep from giggling.

"I always wanted to have a springtime wedding."

"Next spring?" he teased.

"No!" I gave him a playful shove, and he caught my hand in his. "This spring. April's impossible, and I don't want to rush you, but—"

"If I can find a venue in May..." he began, and raised his eyebrows. "Would you like that?

I nodded and he squeezed my hand in his.

"Good. I didn't want to wait 'til July either," he remarked. "God, I've waited long enough." He sighed. "But I want to do things right, and give you a proper wedding, with a dress, and flowers, and those other girly things you like."

"Lyall!"

"Hope," he said, and then repeated my name, more quietly.

"What is it?" I murmured.

Lyall glanced sideways, his brow furrowed, and then returned his gaze to me. He pressed his lips together before opening them again. His voice was low and earnest.

"Look...I know I've done this all wrong. I messed things up entirely, and I should have—I know I should have asked you out sooner."

"It's alright, Lyall."

"No, it's not," he insisted. "I made you wait too long, and I know it was wrong not to ask you to dance and I probably ruined your night completely, but it's not you, it's me. Really. I've always been like this—"

"I like the way you are," I murmured, cupping his left hand in both of mine. I felt the fine strands of hair on the first digit of each finger, and his un-calloused palm, moist and warm.

"It still wasn't right," said Lyall. "And I want to do things the right way from now on. I'm going to make it up to you, I promise."

"You already have," I said. "Look." I held up my ring finger, letting the diamond twinkle before him. "You must have spent a fortune on this, and I don't have anything to give you."

Lyall slowly removed his glasses, and polished them with his handkerchief. He replaced the cloth in his breast pocket, but left his glasses dangling from one hand.

"You could give me a kiss," he suggested, sounding very pleased with himself.

I stepped towards Lyall and pressed my lips to his cheek timidly, but he turned his head and pressed his mouth against mine so that I kissed him on the lips. I already knew the scent of him—gingery, musky, redolent of aging books and spicy aftershave—but now he had a taste, a lovely, malty taste.

"Was that a wicked trick?" he whispered, his breath tickling my cheek..

I threw my head back and laughed. "You had to start somewhere."