Juliet did write to Blair--many times. At first there was no answer back. Juliet remembered the terrible coldness in his eyes when Allan had interrupted them on the shore. But then--a letter came! It was witty and full of humor and somehow made the horrors of war seem brave and valiant instead. Juliet put pen to paper every week--sometimes two or three times a week if a lot was happening. Blair didn't write back quite as frequently. But then, there was a war going on!

* * *

16 March 1942

Dear Blair,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and humor. How you are able to write so casually of the day to day rumblings of war I will never knowit must be a coping mechanism of some sort? Or maybe you are just naturally good-tempered, and able to make the best of a bad situation. I believe the latter--don't forget, even though I don't know you very well in this life, we have been acquainted in a previous one!

This has to be short--the price of ink has gone up--again. You know Mother is a writer, naturally, this is a devastating blow to our household finances.

Beatrice Miller mentioned to me that she was writing to you regularly--I think that's good. It must be nice to have all the support and good wishes you can get during a time like this. But--she mightn't understand if she knew I was writing to you, too--Bea doesn't believe in past life regressions. So you don't have to mention it, if you don't wish to...

Be careful--I'll write again soon, and I want my letter to find you in one piece.

Love, Juliet.

* * *

Juliet felt disloyal to Allan by writing to Blair. But then, Juliet felt disloyal to Blair--and herself--by going around with Allan. She tried to limit her time with the latter by throwing herself headlong into the war-effort. She sold heaps of war-bonds in her first month and earned a gold star pin, and a letter from Lord Tweedsmuir commending her on her efforts. The Junior Reds upped their productivity as well, and held elections for new officers. To her surprise and delight, Juliet was elected Treasurer. Trudy Ford was Secretary, and Bella Priest Vice President. Joyce Meredith, naturally, was the President, and Juliet grudgingly had to admit that the job was perfect for her--she was bossy enough to handle it!

Their first order of business was to set up a concert to raise money for the troops.

* * *

9 June 1942

Dear Blair,

We've just got home from the premier event of the summer--a fund-raising concert put together by the Junior Reds--including yours truly. I'm sure you've heard all about it from your mother and sisters. How lucky we were to get the famous Sara Stanley to recite. She was so moving and eloquent. I think people gave double when they heard her voice--she is so inspiring! How does she manage to give the impression of being such a young girl when she is a grown woman? I'll never know--but I made a vow to myself that I shall try to be as cheerful and delightful as she when I am married, with children of my own. If I could be as charming as your mother--as clever as my own--and as beautiful as Aunt Ilse I do believe I would be the perfect woman!

Aunt Ilse recited tonight, too. She studied elocution when she was younger--my age. One of the selections she read was the poem by John McCrae:

In Flanders fields the poppies grow

Between the crosses row on row

It gave me the shivers and I thought of how you wrote about flying up in the sky, looking down on those rows and rows of crosses when you crossed over Flanders.

I played the piano for Cecilia Blythe and Bella Priest, who sang a duet. It was so beautiful--I was listening so intently at one point that I stopped playing--and got all flummoxed--but was luckily able to pick it up at the right place. I don't think anyone noticed the mistake but oh! How embarrassed I was. My face just burned.

The June lilies are out in Lofty John's Bush. And how white the moonlight is tonight! Is it as beautiful to you, wherever you are? Sometimes, when you are flying along at night, do you feel you could reach right up and pluck it out of the sky? I do.

With love, Juliet.

* * *

"Why don't you let me kiss you anymore?" Allan asked, one night, as he and Juliet walked along in the Murray graveyard. It was a delightful, crowded graveyard, full to the brim with Murrays and their ilk. Sometimes when the night wind was fitful, Juliet imagined that the noise came from her clan bickering. She imagined them sitting on their tombstones and shouting at one another. All except for Aunt Laura--she would sit peacefully by and watch, from the fringes. Juliet remembered Aunt Laura. She'd been so sweet. But the rest of the Murrays hadn't exactly been a peaceful group in their lives--why should anyone imagine that they would be in the one that came after?

"I suppose--it doesn't feel right, with all that's going on," Juliet faltered. "Everyday we hear about more and more casualties. I suppose I don't feel right--that anything good should happen to me--when good things will happen no more to so many."

It was true, but it was not the whole truth.

* * *

20 August 1942

Dear Blair,

How glad we all were to hear the news that you are well--and how terribly scared we were to hear of your close call! When Mother told me that your plane had been shot down, my heart stopped. I swear it did--I've never felt so horribly still in all my life. How lucky--I thank God that it wasn't over enemy territory. Oh, darling, you must be more careful--and come back to me in one piece. Because--I can't live without you. I love you.

I wrote those last three sentences without thinking, or censoring myself, and I'm leaving them in because I feel risky tonight. You are so brave--and I can be brave, too. Not on the same scale as you, of course, but in my own little way. You needn't say it back to me. I just wanted to tell you. I'm not looking for reciprocation, just a general airing of feelings. There's a great, full moon overhead while I write this, and if my declaration isn't welcome, if you don't feel the same, you can just chalk it up to a silly young girl who's let the moonlight go to her head.

Be careful. Be well. And there have been enough professions of love in this letter already, so I'll just sign myself,

Juliet.

* * *

"He's written me four letters--and this makes five!" Bea said, handing a sheaf of papers to Juliet to peruse. "Only he always signs them, 'Yours, Blair.' Why can't he write love? Julie--Juliet! Do you think Blair King could be falling in love with me?"

"Stranger things have happened," said Juliet lightly. She thought of her own letters from Blair, tucked in the little cubbyhole in the mantlepiece of her little room. The one she received yesterday made thirty-three, in all.

* * *

21 September 1942

Blair, dearest,

It's the first of Autumn--and I'm thinking of you. Are you thinking of me? It's strange--and wonderful--and thrilling to think that halfway around the world someone is thinking of me--and loving me.

I love you, too.

Juliet.