The war dragged on for two more years. More died, more would carry scars—both mental and physical—but finally, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918 the last shot was fired.
I wasn’t going to be demobbed—demobilized—just yet, but I was fortunate enough to be stationed in Paris, which had gone mad with joy at the War’s end.
That particular night, I returned to my barracks to find a letter waiting for me. It was in a lilac envelope and smelled faintly of the delicate flowers; it was from Lady Eugenia.
I shut my eyes against the pain. Thomas was gone. What else could she be writing to tell me?
My fingers clenched shut on the elegant paper, crumpling it, while my eyes burned and my throat tightened. Finally, I drew a breath, opened my fingers, and tried to
