No 1 New Zealand Stationary Base Hospital, Amiens, France, November 1916

"My darling,

There are no words to express how happy you have just made me. They are simply not adequate to describe what I'm feeling right now. I can only say that I love you so terribly much, and I cannot believe that we are finally engaged. You wrote once that nothing could make you happier than becoming my wife. Know that this sentiment is entirely returned – if I get to marry you, I have to be by definition the very happiest of men.

Please do not worry about my wound, it is healing very well and gives the doctors and nurses no cause for concern. I am going to be released from the hospital in just few days if it continues to do so, which is fully expected. Davis, my soldier servant, visited me today, and was overjoyed to see me so well, having heard nothing other than I was carried off the battlefield on a stretcher."

Matthew stopped writing for a moment, recalling the honest joy on Davis's face when he looked Matthew up and down and counted all his limbs, finding none missing.

"Since I am supposed to be strictly on light duty for the next few weeks (definitely not in the trenches!), I tasked him with finding out where we are supposed to be billeted for the duration. With any luck it will be somewhere decent, although as an officer I really shouldn't complain too much. I am nearly always assured to have actual roof over my head, while the men often have to make do with a barn or even just their coat on the ground if billets are scarce enough.

I hope the business of setting up the convalescent home calmed down a bit. I might have found a solution to the chain of command issues, which I hope Cousin Violet will be able to pull off. I've met Thomas, your former footman, here as he serves as a corporal of RAMC. By sheer coincidence, he was actually the one who treated my injury and ensured I got safely to the field hospital. If only we can get him reassigned to Downton, he would be very well qualified to become the manager of the convalescent home and an intermediary between Mother and Cousin Cora. Cousin Cora would be firmly in charge of the household staff and accounts, and Mother in charge of treatments and nurses, with Thomas overseeing it all and commanding the orderlies. What do you think? Would it work, in your opinion?

Since I will be in one place for the next several weeks, I would be very grateful if you could send me some books and newspapers. It would be heavenly to have again access to something to occupy my mind with. Of course, only for the times when it is not completely occupied with thinking of you.

You cannot know how ecstatic it makes me to be able to sign this letter as

your loving and happy fiancé,

Matthew"

Downton Abbey, November 1916

"My dearest Matthew,

Thomas – that is, Corporal Barrow, I have to get used to calling him so – arrived just yesterday and it is already obvious that your idea was inspired. Carson is gritting his teeth, but Mama and Cousin Isobel seem to accept their forced détente and busy themselves with their assigned areas of responsibility. Let's hope that here, at least, the peace turns out to be lasting!

I have to add that while I've never been personally fond of Corporal Barrow, knowing now that it is thanks to him your wound was properly taken care of and did not result in any complications, I will be forever grateful to him.

You would hardly recognise Downton as it is now. The ground floor is entirely changed into the convalescent home. Half of the rooms are converted into wards for those men who need most care and the rest are repurposed to cater to their different needs: the big library is the recreation room, the grand hall the canteen, the smoking room the physical therapy area. The upper bedrooms in the guest wing are all in use as well, for the officers who are well enough to climb the stairs and can manage without constant monitoring. The attics are overtaken for sleeping quarters for the orderlies and nurses. All is bustle, all is crowded. I find myself hiding in your study or my bedroom more often than not.

Not everyone is as bothered by the invasion as me. Sybil of course is elated that we are all finally making a real contribution, a position fully supported by your mother. Edith loves feeling needed again, now that farm work is over for the season, and I always see her busy with handing out books or helping with the letters. Even Mama, so opposed to the whole idea in the beginning, seems to thrive with all the additional duties which managing the staff of this size requires of her. So it's really just me who seems out of sorts.

I wouldn't want you to think that I am doing nothing to help – I try to make myself useful in any small way which is needed, I cannot leave all the moral high ground to Sybil, she would get lonely up there – but to you I will admit that I am relieved when the estate duties give me an excuse to pull away from it all. It is strange, because if you asked me before, I would have said it was impossible to keep the war away from my thoughts – and yet I hate all the reminders of it surrounding me now day and night. Seeing all the wounded officers is the worst. I see your face on each of them, darling, and then I just want to run away to pray that nothing like that ever befalls you.

I do actually intend to make my escape for a bit. Aunt Rosamund has invited me to London for the next two or three weeks, so please direct your letters there for the time being. I tell myself that it's the opportunity to shop for Christmas gifts, visit friends and see some theatre plays that compelled me to accept her invitation, but it was the cowardly need to cut myself off from it all for a bit.

How are you, my darling? Have you been released from the hospital as expected? Is the wound still giving you much difficulty or pain? Has Davis managed to find you a nice billet? I am so happy that I don't have to worry so much about your safety yet, but I hate to think that you may suffer from squalid conditions in such a weather as the winter brings.

Do you know what I do to keep all those worries away? I'm imagining that beastly war finally ending and you coming back home safe and sound. I'm imagining us doing all the things we either never managed before or did entirely too little of. Like dancing. Can you believe that I was dreaming about Sybil's ball last night? It seems ages ago, in a different world. But I was dreaming about it and in my dream we were dancing again, only this time all the other couples disappeared and we were wonderfully alone, spinning to the music. Oh Matthew, I cannot wait to dance with you again! I am so desperate for it that I think I would even brave a local dance hall, just to feel the joy of dancing in your arms again. I expect I will come to my senses soon, so do not hold me to it, but I think this is a perfect illustration of what missing you does to me.

Your clearly desperate fiancée,

Mary"

Downton Abbey, November 1916

"Sir,

I have arrived at Downton yesterday and, after being briefed by Major Clarkson, met with the younger Lady Grantham and Mrs Crawley to establish the division of duties. The discussion was not without some disagreements, but in the end we agreed to your proposals. I see now fully what I've gotten myself into, but rest assured, sir, I can manage. You can count on me to keep the place running and the ladies without any need to pester you with their quarrels.

I owe you for life, sir, and I am never going to forget it. Thank you for my deliverance and for your trust in me. You're not going to regret it.

Yours sincerely,

Sergeant Thomas Barrow"

Cliveden, December 1916

"Who is the woman you were dancing with before?"

"Lady Mary Crawley, daughter of the late Earl of Grantham, and the cousin of the current one."

"She is a looker alright."

"Not just a looker. She is an heiress."

"An heiress? Isn't the estate entailed with the title? How unusual."

"Oh, it was. But the current earl, her cousin, doesn't have any male relatives left, so he willed everything to her – the estate and her mother's American fortune both. And as he is an officer at the front, you know how good the chance is she will take possession of it all."

"Didn't they say that the life expectancy of a junior officer is six weeks now?"

"Something like that. Want me to introduce you to her?

"I wouldn't mind. I wouldn't mind her without a fortune either, but with those blasted taxes it sure would be a nice bonus."

The men didn't notice her, standing in the shadows of a huge potted plant as she was, eager for a moment of solitude to calm her thoughts. Their conversation certainly wasn't conductive to her purpose though.

"Hiding, Lady Mary?" asked smooth voice next to her, startling her so badly she jumped. She turned her head to discover Sir Richard Carlisle looming over her.

"Hardly," she scoffed. "Just avoiding the idiot I danced with before."

"Or his talk of your potential inheritance?"

Mary glared at him.

"My cousin might be facing untold dangers every day," she said icily. "But I find it beyond crass to make decisions whether to court me or not based on the gamble on his life expectancy."

"Would I increase my chances of succeeding with you if I assured you I don't care whether you inherit his fortune or not? I have enough money of my own and soon will earn more."

Mary raised her eyebrows.

"I would point out that boasting about your money is nearly as crass as speculation about mine," she said in a slightly less frosty tone. "But you're lucky tonight. In comparison, you are getting on my nerves significantly less than your competitors."

Sir Richard threw his head back and laughed sincerely.

"Oh, Lady Mary," he said, still chuckling. "I can say we will get along splendidly."

Drawing room, Painswick House, December 1916

"My dearest Mary,

I'm sorry that turning Downton into a convalescent home proved to be such a burden to you. I can well understand how disconcerting it must be, and I am ever so grateful to Lady Rosamund for providing you with a respite. I hope you are enjoying yourself in London. I like imagining you in one of your magnificent dresses, twirling around a huge ballroom and having a good time. I just wish, so much, that I could be there and dance with you, darling. As much as I miss you though, I hate the thought of you unhappy, so if there is anything which can bring you pleasure, I'm happy to hear that you're doing it. Although if you think that I am going to forget your rash promise to go to a dance hall with me, then you are very mistaken, darling. You can depend on me holding you to it as soon as I am on leave.

It is funny to imagine you walking alongside some London street, because, you see, in a way I am as well. Atthe beginning of every long trench there is a name of a famous London street, every one of them has it. And if you come to a place where you turn it is called Piccadilly Circus or something like that. Who knows, maybe sometimes we reach it at the same time, even though I have to say the shopping opportunities are definitely scarcer here.

Do not worry, darling, I am far from the front trenches right now (and even if I was there, the fighting mostly stopped for the winter anyway). At present I am in what is called 'in rest' – that is, our division is miles away from the firing line, and out of the noise of the big guns, and at the present time I am in charge of a working party in the forest, making roads and cutting and loading timber. You must not be misled by the term, as 'in rest' over here means hard work. Of course, as an officer, I am not the one expected to pick an axe myself, just to oversee the soldiers doing so, so I can hardly complain about my lot. I will allow myself a small grumble that I wish the weather was just a tad warmer. By the end of the day I barely feel my hands and feet and find the fireplace in my billet the most marvellous thing on Earth. I was again fortunate in my billet, as I have a nice big bed to sleep in; most of the others are sleeping on the floor in other houses. Mine is a fairly decent place, with a comfortable room and enough space that Davis can sleep in the house as well and cook our meals in the kitchen. But the fireplace is really quite a boon, since you can get your clothes dried at night, which is unfortunately not a given. My men's lodgings are not so comfortable as things might be. This is just a small country village of a few farmhouses; you can't expect much. I have done all I can to improve their conditions, but unfortunately it wasn't much in the circumstances.

God bless you, my darling.

Your loving, but cold fiancé,

Matthew"

"Another letter from Matthew?" asked Aunt Rosamund casually, putting Mary instantly on high alert.

"He is on light duty until his leg is fully healed, and apparently has plenty of time to write," she answered airily. "As I understand, the alternative is dealing with duty rosters and censoring his soldiers' letters. No wonder he turned into a diligent correspondent."

"Hmh," said Rosamund only, still observing Mary closely. "I had a call from Lady Shrewsbury. She said that Sir Richard Carlisle has been making inquiries about you."

"I wonder why," said Mary dismissively, reaching for a sheet of paper and her own pen. "I did dance with him twice and we shared an amusing conversation or two, but I wager it will be the end of our acquaintance."

"I would wager not. It seems to be more than casual interest on his part."

"But it is even less than casual interest on mine," answered Mary firmly. "He has been entertaining enough in comparison to some other dolts who approached me that evening, but only because most men worth spending time with are either in France or in Belgium. You cannot say that we would have paid any attention to him whatsoever before the war, if he even had managed to wrangle an invitation then."

"No, we wouldn't have," agreed Rosamund. "But it isn't before the war now. He is becoming truly rich and powerful and could provide you with a prominent position in society. Not to mention that you're not exactly able to be choosy."

"After I blotted my copybook?" asked Mary sharply. "Be it as it may, I am not interested in furthering our acquaintance. Please excuse me, I have a letter to write before I go shopping."

She took her things and went to her bedroom, not leaving Aunt Rosamund a chance to respond.

It didn't take her long to get Aunt Rosamund and her meddling out of her head. It was already too full of Matthew. She could not look at the luxury surrounding her and not think with clenched heart about the deplorable conditions he was forced to endure. To be so grateful just to have a bed and a fire, which clearly implied it was not assured he had regular access to either! And she knew that he was toning it all down in his letters to her, for all his openness. She couldn't stand such thoughts and yet how could she not think of it?

She exhaled slowly to calm herself down and sat at her writing desk to answer his letter.

"My dearest Matthew,

I am so glad to hear that your wound is getting so much better and that your billet is good enough to provide you with some basic comforts. I do realise it might be hard to come up with better accommodations for all those soldiers sent to France and that you are still treated better than many as an officer, but my heart breaks whenever I imagine you cold and uncomfortable. Papa would chastise me for that and remind me that such is a lot of a soldier, but I cannot help thinking that you simply deserve better.

I laughed at the thought that we might be crossing Picadilly at the same time even though miles apart. Now I will never be able to walk there without thinking of you, darling.

My stay in London has been a reprieve from Downton troubles, but I find myself eager to go back. Aunt Rosamund is the best of hostesses and took me to Cliveden for an evening of dancing and celebrating, but I have to admit I was not as jolly as I expected. It was painfully obvious that most of the best men were absent for obvious reasons and many of those with freedom to attend got on my nerves in the most awful way. The only man which didn't set my teeth on edge was Sir Richard Carlisle, a newspaper baron, which should tell you how desperate I was for company and rational conversation. I missed you dreadfully the whole evening, even more than I usually do. It would have been such fun, if only you were there with me!

I have to go, since it's my last day in London, and I still have a ton of shopping to finish. Please send your response to Downton, I will be awaiting it eagerly and I promise you a proper, long letter in return.

Keep as warm and safe as possible, my darling.

Your hurried fiancée, who misses you terribly,

Mary"

Harrods, London, December 1916

Mary paused, undecided.

She had completed most of her Christmas shopping. The Crawley family never bothered with extravagant gifts, perfectly content to give each other books and small jewellery, so it wasn't very difficult to choose something for Granny, Mama and her sisters. She got additional small gifts for Carson and Anna, separate from the usual ones handed out on behalf of the Earl of Grantham. She even had a practical but lovely shawl for Cousin Isobel.

But she didn't manage to pick anything for Matthew yet and she had to do it today if she wanted to have any chance of the parcel reaching him at the front before Christmas.

They were all putting a nice, big package for him. Mrs Patmore got special orders to prepare any sweets which were unlikely to spoil on the way and Mary had it on the best authority that Mrs Bird was preparing some of her own, jealously convinced that nobody knew what Mr Matthew liked best better than she who had been feeding him since he had been a little boy. Carson was tasked with selecting and securely packing some especially nice bottles of wine and brandy, as well as some cigars. All of the family were planning to pack their own gifts and Christmas cards and if only Mary could finally decide what to buy him, the package would be ready to post tomorrow, as soon as she was back from London.

She just didn't know what.

If she cared less, she would have bought something ages ago, but the problem was, she so wanted her gift to be special. She could not think about Matthew, her gentle, beautiful Matthew who loved his family and adored Christmas, spending it again at an army base at best and in a cold, dirty trench at worst, in the company of strangers and falling shells. His third Christmas in France. He had never once had leave scheduled during it. She knew even the best gift from her could not make up for it, but she so wanted it to be significant for him, to take away at least a tiny bit of awfulness of the reality he was facing every day.

Her choices were limited. It had to be something small and light, easy to carry. She did not forget the practical difficulties keeping books at the front caused him. So what would fulfil those criteria and still made him smile?

Then she noticed the gloves shop and got her first strike of inspiration.

Matthew would have no more reason to complain about his hands getting so cold he could not feel them anymore.

"Which size?" asked the shopgirl and Mary froze for a moment. She did not know Matthew's glove size; she never had a reason to ask. But then she looked at the gloves on the counted and felt her confidence return. She carefully placed her own hand next to one of them and smiled.

"A size bigger than this one," she said firmly, the memory of Matthew's slender hand against her own clear in her mind.

A package in hand and a new spring in her step, she went in search of several more items. She was allowed to spoil her fiancé a little, wasn't she? She was just going to make sure that her gift for Matthew was well wrapped before she added it to the parcel, so there would be no intrusive comments regarding the grandness of it or the fact that she got him more than one.

A farmhouse near the Somme, France, December 25th, 1916

Matthew entered the kitchen of the farmhouse he was currently billeted in and smiled. It was obvious that the last mail call was a bountiful one for all of them. Davis was busy making them a pot of real coffee while Lieutenant Richardson and Captain Summers were already puffing on excellent cigars Summer's wife had sent him in his package.

"Come on, Crawley, open your own at last! I need to know if it's worth to share my stuff with you!" grinned Richardson, a beanpole of a man with a contagious smile and an amazing head for numbers which was propelling his banking career before the war.

"It will be," said Summers placidly, inhaling contentedly and relaxing in his rickety chair. "Only the best for our aristo here."

Matthew sent him a mildly reproaching look at the reminder of his still barely acknowledged change in social status and opened the big box eagerly. He was not disappointed. An assortment of sweets, alcohol, gifts, postcards, letters and practical items were filling it to the brim.

He recognised Mary's writing on the letter attached to one of the smaller parcels and could not resist opening it first.

"My dearest Matthew,

Merry Christmas, my darling! I hope it will be as good as it is possible to get where you are. I won't pretend I am not dreading it myself a little bit; I think we all are. The first Christmas without Papa... He's been gone nine months and I still cannot believe it sometimes. When I add to that near constant anxiety I feel for you safety, my darling, and the weirdness of sharing the house with dozens of strangers, and I hardly feel any holiday spirit at all.
Oh dear. I should probably rip this letter to shreds and start anew, shouldn't I? It's hardly the cheerful and comforting one I had in mind when I picked up the pen. But darling, you have always had the strangest ability to inspire outbursts of honesty in me and apparently it still works regardless of the distance separating us or mode of communication. It feels the same as when we were walking through the village fair and I confessed to you that my life made me angry. Seems like we had this conversation in a different world, doesn't it? But I still remember how very shocked I was that those words actually left my mouth - and how very kind and understanding you were to me then and later that night. I now think that it was that very walk and the subsequent discussion in the library when I first started to fall in love with you. How could I not when you were so very wonderful? You told me I mean a very great deal - and do you know, darling, nobody else but Granny and Carson ever made me feel like I do. I know Papa loved me very much, but in the end he never fought for me. He never intended to. Downton was more important to him than me, and maybe it was the right decision, especially since you told me there was no real way to win that fight anyway, but what still pains me is the fact that he never even tried. And to Mama I am such a disappointment. I think she was proud of me at first, when I had such a successful debut, and agreed to marry Patrick even though I never really wanted to, but then I made my share of mistakes and she has never truly forgiven me for that. When I think of the fact that my mistakes concerning you were even more serious and yet you have not only forgiven me, but love me still, I am humbled and overwhelmed. I just hope that my love is enough to be worthy of yours.

I hope you will enjoy all your gifts – everybody was determined to pitch in to make your Christmas as cheerful as possible despite the circumstances – but I will freely admit that I hope you will like mine the best. I tried to pick something which could be useful to you, but which would also remind you of me. I wonder if you open my letter or my gifts first. If, as I hope, you started with the letter, then please open the packages in that order: first the biggest, then the smallest, and then the midsized. This way they will go from practical to sentimental. I hope they will bring you some joy and that beautiful smile of yours on your face. I just regret that I won't be able to see it.

I love you, Matthew, and on Christmas day, however it's going to turn out for me, I will be consoling myself with the image of sharing all future Christmases with you. Even if it's an impossible wish, isn't Christmas the very day we are supposed to wish on the star and believe in miracles? I will do my best to try.

Your wistful fiancée,

Mary"

Matthew reached eagerly for three small gifts signed in Mary's hand. As instructed, he started with the biggest and smiled when he unpacked a pair of warm, fur lined leather gloves, which he immediately tried on. They fit perfectly. He wondered how Mary managed to figure out his glove size so exactly.

The second package nearly made him whistle in appreciation. It was a silver officer's wristwatch, with a silver cover to protect it from mud and the elements. When he opened it to look at the face with glow in the dark numbers and dials (such a useful feature at night!), his throat tightened when he noticed an engraved inscription in the inside of the lid.

"You also mean a great deal. Be safe."

He put the watch down delicately, the lid with the inscription still open, and reached for the final gift. Mary said that the gifts went gradually from practical to sentimental. How could she top this one?

He inhaled sharply when the wrapping paper revealed a photograph of Mary in a foldable leather frame, his eyes greedily taking in every detail of her beloved features.

"That's your girl, sir?" asked Davis, looking at the photo over Matthew's shoulder. "She is really beautiful."

"Yes, Davis," said Matthew, a wide grin on his face despite slightly misty eyes. "That's my girl."

Small library, Downton Abbey, Christmas Day 1916

Mary thought wistfully that she hated being right about dreading this Christmas.

The festivities were visibly subdued in comparison to usual standards of Downton, even during the war. It was not even the necessity to fit all servants into the small library to hand out their gifts, or the loud cheers of more exuberant officers coming from the screened off big library and interrupting their conversations. In fact, handing out small gift and parcels from home to the convalescents and the nursing staff and joining in their singing made the day a bit brighter, added some feeling of purpose and importance to it. But nothing could hide the fact that it was the first Christmas without Papa and they all felt it dreadfully.

They were just finished with exchanging the gifts, when Carson entered the room, carrying a small box.

"I'm sorry to intrude, your ladyship," he said, addressing Cora, "but I've been instructed to only deliver this package, which came a week ago, on this very day. It is from his lordship."

It took them all a moment to realise he meant Matthew, not Robert, but when they did, Mary wasn't the only one to give an exclamation of happy surprise.

"It's so like Matthew to surprise us like that!" said Isobel proudly and Mary readily agreed.

The box was opened and turned out to contain a wrapped gift and a letter for everybody present. Mary took hers to the window seat, taking advantage of their preoccupation with opening theirs to deal with her own in relative privacy.

She started with the gift and gasped quietly when she discovered a pretty silver chain dotted with glittering little stars. She eagerly opened the letter.

"My dearest darling,

Merry Christmas! I hope it is for you, although I know it must necessarily be hard as well. I remember the first holidays after my own father passed away and how every cheerful moment was also tainted with guilt for daring to enjoy it when he was gone. But I wish that you are able to experience joy today as well as sadness and that my little gift can be of some help with it.

Being restricted to light duty until my wound is fully healed turned to be extremely advantageous in many ways. Failing to find me some useful occupation near the front for the week my battalion was deployed to the front trench, I have been seconded to Paris to replace ADC of General Herbert Strutt while he was on leave. The General, finding my work adequate, granted me a generous afternoon off in thanks so I could complete my Christmas shopping. Thus, I've been able to find a nice jewellery store, where this starry necklace reminded me of the constellation of Andromeda – and of you, my darling. I hope it will gladden your eyes and makes you think of me when you wear it.

I dared not send you a more significant gift, as impatient as I am to be able to acknowledge our bond openly – not until you feel that our engagement can be made public – but I found I rather like the idea of being in a position to spoil you and shower you with gifts. I know I've teased you for being quite spoilt already, but in truth I'm vulnerable to the very same impulse other men in your life suffered from. How can I blame your Papa, your Godfather or Carson for something which I myself am incapable of restraining?

Oh Mary, how I wish we were able to spend that day together. I know it's pointless and counterproductive to dwell on it, but I cannot stop myself from it. It seems so patently absurd that we must be apart when all I wish is to be with you. It is not even that I am doing anything terribly important at the moment – I think it would have helped if I was – but since I have already used my 2 leaves for the year owed to a 1st lieutenant, they cannot let me go. I do not wish for a promotion to captain for anything more than for increasing my leaves to four per year.

But for now I cannot do anything else other than close my eyes and try to recall the way your eyes sparkle and the corners of your mouth turns slightly up when you say something witty and cutting which I know will make me laugh even if I think I shouldn't. I picture the light reflecting off your glossy hair and my hand twitches in yearning to touch it and test whether it's as silky as it looks. I try to remember your voice, so delightful and melodious, and I worry that the echo in my head is just a poor imitation of the real thing. I cling to the memory of the shape of your face in my hands and the feel of your lips against mine and it's often powerful enough to quiet the guns going off all around me.

I'm planning to think about you tonight, my darling, and I am sure I will be dreaming about you, as I so often do when thoughts about you accompany me to my sleep. I hope you will think about me. Who knows, maybe we will spend this Christmas together at least in our dreams.

Your fiancé, who misses you very much right now,

Matthew"

Sybil's voice pulled Mary away from perusing Matthew's letter for the third time.

"What has Matthew sent you? Look, he got me a most darling necklace!" she said, showing a pretty silver chain with a blue pendant matching her eyes perfectly.

Mary startled, hastily folding her letter and hoping her cheeks were not as aflame as they felt.

"A necklace as well," she said, striving for her usual calm and controlled tone, and showing hers to Sybil.

"Oh, it's also beautiful! I love all those little stars, they make it look like a constellation, don't they?"

"Yes," agreed Mary with a smile, holding it in a way which made the weak December sun reflect on it and make it sparkle. "He said it reminded him of the Andromeda one."

Sybil sent her a sharp look.

"Andromeda, huh?" she asked teasingly. "And is he going to wear something reminding him of the sea monster, to match it?"

Mary glared at her, closing her hand around the necklace as if to hide it.

"If he were to get himself a matching trinket, it would not be anything related to the sea monster," she said firmly. "Not when it should clearly be Perseus."

She turned her head towards the window, afraid that she said too much. But Sybil just put her slender hand on her shoulder and said quietly:

"Of course it should be. Nothing else would fit."