Epilogue
THE CHILDREN AT Marigold House had forgotten about the shadow that consumed their nightmares.
They remembered nightmares, of course, bad dreams about birds and bells and a boy who smiled too wide. But children’s memories are kind. They blur the edges. They soften the dark.
I was grateful for that.
Agnes slept in the bed farthest away from the window now. She still woke sometimes, gasping, reaching for a shadow that wasn’t there. But each morning, when the light came through the windows, she smiled a little wider. Ate a little more. Laughed a little louder.
She was coming back to herself. Slowly. The way all healing happens.
I was in the garden when I found it.
The roses had finally bloomed, late this year. I was cutting stems for the dining hall when my shears fell and struck something hard.
I knelt. Brushed away the soil.
And there, nestled among the roots like something the earth had been keeping safe: Roger’s pocket watch.
I lifted it with trembling hands. The case was clean now. Polished. As if someone had wiped away the years of tarnish and neglect. And the crack in the face, it was gone. I turned the pocket watch over in my hands, believing for a moment this was not real, but there they were, his initials: R.H.
“I’m so sorry, my darling,” I said. Tears welling in my eyes. “I thought maybe I should be rid of it all … all of the memories, but no matter how hard I tried to forget that place, I could never forget you. No matter how hard I tried. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to forget you. Not ever.”
I pressed the watch to my heart. The metal was warm against my palm. It wasn’t ticking, but still, it was here, and it was real.
Inside children were laughing. The kettle was singing. The world here was warm, and mine.
“Good morning, Rosie,” I said as I entered the kitchen.
A great wail greeted me instead, little Jane in Eleanor’s arms, her face red and furious.
Rosie was gathering bowls and spoons for the children’s breakfast.
“She’ll quiet now that Wendy’s here,” Rosie said.
And she did. Jane’s cries softened to hiccups, then silence as she extended her fingers toward me.
“Hmm,” Eleanor said, looking from Jane to me. “You’re right, Rosie. Wendy could pass for her mother.”
“I’m nobody’s mother,” I said.
“This is true,” Rosie said. “But who knows, maybe when John finishes those repairs on your house, little Jane could go with you.”
“And who would take care of her while I was at work?”
“We’ve got to find Wendy a husband, then,” Eleanor said.
The pocket watch began to tick. I hadn’t wound it.
“You two …”
“And Michael?” Eleanor asked.
“John and I received letters this week. He’s made it to the Western Front.”
I said it lightly, as if it meant nothing. As if my heart didn’t seize thinking of him in the trenches, but all I could do was hope for him to return home safely as he had done before.
I washed and readied for lessons, and the classroom greeted me like an old friend.
The air smelled of chalk dust, lemon oil, and paper. I opened a window and a breeze moved slowly, teasing books stacked beside my desk, fluttering their pages.
I moved toward them without thinking, fingers brushing the spines. The covers bore faint fingerprints, smudges of coal and breadcrumbs, the traces of children who would one day forget this room entirely when they grew up and left us.
I reached for my papers when a knock came at the door.
“Yes?” I called, thinking a child may have woken early. “It’s quite early. You should be preparing for breakfast,” I said without looking at the door.
The door creaked open, and through the narrow sliver, Beatrice appeared. She looked beautiful, her red curls pinned up but still spilling out from beneath her hat. “Aren’t you an absolutely lovely surprise this morning! What are you doing here?”
“I’ve got the day off and wanted to spend it with you.”
“You’re so sweet.”
“Plus, we miss you at the hospital,” she said with a smile.
“I know … but more children are staying with us, so they need me.”
“I’m glad you’ve living here.”
“For now,” I said.
“Regardless, I’m glad you’re here now. I don’t want you all alone in that big house of yours.” She paused, her smile turning mischievous. “But maybe we can change that, eventually?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?”
“You have to cover your eyes first.”
“What are you up to?” I laughed. “You’re just like the children.”
“Those are the rules. No peeking.”
I covered my eyes with my hands, the same as I had before Lillian presented me with a green ribbon in my hat.
Footsteps approached. Heavier than Beatrice’s. Someone else entered the room.
“Your surprise is a visitor,” she said. “You can look now.”
I lowered my hands.
He was standing in the doorway. No hospital-issued shirt or trousers. Just a man in a handsome suit. Standing upright and here. The soldier.
“Edward …” The name came out as barely a whisper. My hands found the edge of my desk to steady myself.
He was there. Standing. Whole. And he was looking at me like I was the only person in the world.
Beatrice stood behind him, her eyes darting between us, smiling with satisfaction.
Edward’s cheeks flushed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes kept finding mine, then darting away, as if afraid if he looked too long, I’d disappear.
“Well,” Beatrice whispered. “Aren’t you going to say anything?’
He smiled, bashful. “Hello.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, my goodness, you two are ever so boring. You’re perfect for one another. Where is the dramatic greeting?”
“Beatrice …”
Edward stood like a man newly arrived from a long voyage, upright but uncertain. Our eyes met, and it was like looking into a mirror after grief. Slow. Hesitant. Disbelieving that safety could be real.
He crossed the room with careful steps, as though testing the floor’s willingness to hold him. He stopped in front of my desk, hands uncertain at his sides, when something caught his eye.
“Your pocket watch …” His voice was lower than I expected. Gentler.
“Yes.” My heart leaped. How much had he remembered.
“It belonged to your friend.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but I felt a sting behind my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean … I just remember some things you said. The stories you read.”
I looked at Beatrice, my dear friend and lifeline to this outside world, outside of Marigold House.
I’d lived my entire life under the care of someone else, my parents, then Peter, then this house, then my own guilt.
I had been too afraid to move forward for fear of being hurt.
Or worse, for fear of losing someone again.
Beatrice gave me a single encouraging nod, and in that small gesture she told me it was all right to jump.
“Miss Darling,” Edward said. “You read to me every day for months.”
“I did.”
“I wanted to thank you,” he said. His eyes softened. “Thank you for sitting with me so I wasn’t alone in the dark.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Edward looked over his shoulder to Beatrice, waiting for her encouraging nudge. She smiled and shook her head at the ceiling.
He exhaled, gathering courage. “If you have time, could you tell me a story?”
I smiled, because of how sweet the request was. “Of course. You can join me for class. The children would be delighted to meet you, if you don’t mind.”
“I’d love to meet them.”
He sat. Carefully. Like a man who had forgotten how.
Down the hallway, Jane’s cries reached us, then faded.
Beatrice watched us from the doorway; her hand pressed to her chest. She caught my eyes, nodded once, then slipped out, pulling the door closed behind her with a soft click.
Edward and I sat in the quiet classroom, the empty desks waiting for children who would arrive within the hour.
“I don’t remember much,” he said, after a long moment.
“From before. Just pieces. Flashes of light in the dark. People shouting. But I remembered your voice. It was like it reached through to find me. Telling me I would be all right. The stories you told.” He looked at his hands, turned them over as if checking they were real. “They helped me to remember.”
My throat tightened.
I thought of all the stories I had told him. The silly ones. The brave ones.
“Stories are like that,” I said. “Sometimes they can pin us down to this world, and sometimes, other stories, they take us away. Elsewhere.”
In his eyes, I saw something I recognized, the look of someone who had been somewhere dark and was still navigating his way toward the light.
“Will you tell me one now?” he asked. “Before the children come?”
It didn’t take me long to figure out what story I should tell a man who had been trapped in the darkness for so long. I thought of my own story, and how I had been trapped there too.
“Once upon a time,” I said slowly, “there was a girl who learned that growing up wasn’t a tragedy. It was a gift. But in order to learn that lesson, she would first have to meet a boy who would never grow up.”
He leaned back in the chair. Closed his eyes. Not sleeping, just listening. Trusting.
Outside, birds sang. Inside, the watch ticked slowly.
Edward smiled.
The door opened. Small faces appeared, and like every morning I felt so happy to be surrounded by the spirit of childhood. The children gathered around me and Edward, asking him all sorts of questions, what was his name, what was he doing here, how did he know me.
Willie entered last, navigating each step on his crutches, Agnes at his side. She gasped.
“Oh, Miss Wendy has a friend!”
I rose from my desk, smoothing my skirt, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Edward looked delighted as he responded to each of the children’s questions.
And as the children settled, chattering and curious, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Wonder. Surprise. Adventure. And the best part was, I had found all of that right here at home.