47. May 8, 1945 London, England
The bells would have brought Beatrix to St. Paul’s even if Oliver’s invitation hadn’t. The clear, clanging notes stole her breath away as they rang over the rooftops of London, the first time in six years she’d heard that sound.
She passes through the wooden doors that have been thrown wide in welcome.
St. Paul’s has survived the war, but not unscathed.
The windows are coated in thick layers of black paint or gone altogether, the holes where stained glass used to hang covered by planks of wood.
A crater has been boarded up in the marble floor.
Beatrix can see right down to the crypt.
She lurks near the aisle, watching the people as they file into the cathedral.
It reminds her of her days at old St. Paul’s, scouring the walk for her next mark.
An arm snakes around her waist. The scent of apples and lavender and an ancient oak wood drifts over her, a moment before a kiss lands on her cheek. Speaking of old marks.
“I suppose now I know what was so special about today,” Beatrix says. She has known the date Oliver would return since the night in her apartment, but how could she know it would be the day the war ends in Europe, when it hadn’t begun yet?
Oliver releases her. He wears a black suit and clutches a matching brimmed hat in his hands. He’s pinned a red, white, and blue rosette to his wide lapel in honor of the occasion. “Are you a soldier now?” His gaze flicks over her, takes in her navy jacket and skirt, her swept-up hair and cap.
“Air transport.” From this close, she can see the muscles clench in his jaw. He’s at least familiar with her work, then. Dangerous. Unforgiving.
“So, what, you learned how to fly a plane since last time?” he asks, incredulous.
“Yes.” Her instructors said she was lucky to have completed her training when she did, but she didn’t need luck when she knew a war was coming.
He leans closer. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Her eyes meet his. “I did.” Every time she climbed into the cockpit of a damaged plane needing to be brought in for repair, she was terrified of hurtling toward the ground and going up in flames.
Every time the air-raid sirens went off, she imagined being blown to smithereens by a Nazi bomb.
Would it finally be the end of her, or would the faerie’s magic piece her back together?
She had nightmares about it nearly every night, but she couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Not while London burned.
Oliver nods as if he understands. She’s sure he doesn’t. He hasn’t lived through two world wars.
He leans against the arch and Beatrix leans into him. He slips his journal from the inside of his jacket and flips to a dog-eared page.
“Is that today’s itinerary?” Beatrix asks.
Oliver nods absently as he skims the words.
Ordinarily, she’d find the habit endearing, but she feels a protectiveness—a possessiveness—over this day.
Maybe she has no right to claim she survived the bombings when she knew she would outlive the war, even if London didn’t.
But she has lived through the food rations, the clothes rations, the fire and smoke, the wail of air-raid sirens, and the endless dark nights.
She has seen homes and livelihoods stolen away in a flash and a bang, has seen men return from the fighting damaged and scarred, has seen the families of men who didn’t return at all.
Has worked alongside women who’ve lost husbands and fiancés, fathers and brothers; who’ve lost the promise of a life beyond the war. Who’ve lost hope.
She lays her hand over the page, blocking the words from his view. Oliver’s gaze meets hers. Her heart skips, still.
“I’d like to show you something,” she says. “If you have the time?”
Oliver’s eyes cloud, a shadow there and gone. He closes his notebook and slips it inside his jacket. He offers her his hand, and she takes it. “Lead the way.”
Beatrix crosses beneath the dome, weaving through the throngs of people making their way down the aisle for the next service. She stops in front of a wooden door and glances quickly around. Sure no one is paying her any mind, she pushes it open. She waves Oliver through and slips in behind him.
“Are you sure we’re supposed to be in here?” he whispers.
“I’m sure we’re not.” The cathedral is open only for services, unless you are a member of the Watch, those men who took the prime minister’s orders to heart: “St. Paul’s must be saved at all costs.
” Since the day the Blitz began, they have defended it from flames and bombs alike.
Beatrix hopes she will get to thank them.
Oliver follows her up the steps, past the Whispering Gallery, to a landing at the bottom of a spiraling iron staircase. “You’re not afraid of small spaces, are you?” she asks. “Or very high ones?”
“No,” Oliver says. “But now I’m intrigued.”
“Good.” Beatrix pecks him on the cheek. “Then up we go.”
The stairs twist tightly upward, just wide enough for them to climb in single file. One hundred and fifty-two steps later, they stand in front of a heavy wooden door. She leans into it, heaves it open with her shoulder, and steps through.
Beatrix is momentarily blinded by the sunlight. When her vision returns, all of London is laid out below her, sprawling to the horizon. She steps up to the gilt railing.
Oliver leans next to her. “Wow” is all he can manage to say.
From above—far beyond the strings of bunting and waving Union flags—it is easy to see the toll the war has taken on the city.
There are buildings with no roofs or windows, fronts that have crumbled away to reveal hollow interiors.
Jagged remnants of walls rise like islands from a sea of debris.
Mangled metal and piles of brick, splintered wood and shattered glass, and every precious thing that made a home, spilling out across London.
But there are also hundreds of thousands of people, singing and laughing, dancing and cheering.
The bells are ringing and flags are flying, and from the top of St. Paul’s dome, Beatrix can see it all: where hope meets grief, where relief borders guilt, where triumph sits alongside uncertainty.
She knows better than most, perhaps better than anyone, what a long road lies ahead.
It is never going back to how it was before.
Tears spring to her eyes. She can’t tell if they are tears of relief or joy, sorrow or exhaustion. Maybe they are all those things. She brushes them quickly away. Oliver still notices.
“They’re going to rebuild it,” he says. “London will be as good as new.”
“No spoilers,” Beatrix warns. She wants to discover her new London all on her own.
Oliver smiles. “Still too early to say that.”
She gestures toward the skyline. “This is a historic day, and I know you want to see as much of it as you can.”
“I sense a but coming.”
“I’ve been here through all of this. And I’m the one who’s going to be here tomorrow.” When the fun is past and the work of rebuilding a normal life begins. “This is more than just a party for me.”
“Of course it is,” he says, though he sounds like he has only just realized it.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “But can we do this one my way?”
Oliver pulls her into him. “That sounds perfect.”
She searches his eyes for some shadow of doubt. “You’re not disappointed about your journal?”
“I want to do more than check boxes,” he says. “Besides, you’re absolutely right. This isn’t my day.”
Beatrix slips her hand into his and squeezes it. “Thank you.”
They stroll around the perimeter of the dome, taking in London Bridge and Blackfriars and the monument commemorating the Great Fire. The Thames. The places where the Globe and the Crystal Palace once stood. Places she visited lifetimes ago.
They climb down the stairs, spiraling back into the dome. Beatrix comes to an abrupt halt in front of a wooden door painted with a golden hand, pointing the way to the galleries above. “Do you know what the prime minister is going to say in his speech this afternoon?”
Oliver smirks at her. “I thought you didn’t want spoilers.”
“I don’t,” Beatrix says. “But for you, the whole day is spoiled, isn’t it?”
Oliver shrugs. “I know the highlights.”
She nods to the door. “Do you know what’s through there?”
He glances at it. “No.”
“Good. Neither do I.” She ignores the sign that declares the door Not to Be Opened, and drags Oliver through behind her.
“Congratulations, I think we found St. Paul’s attic,” Oliver says, glancing around the wide, windowless corridor. An assortment of furniture and paintings and odd shapes covered with white cloths clutters the space.
But Beatrix is drawn to something else. Narrow wooden shelves line a section of the wall from floor to ceiling, piled with gray stones of every shape and size.
“And their rock collection,” Oliver adds, next to her.
Beatrix scans the hundreds of pieces of smashed stone, some plain and smooth and worn, others carved with decoration. She should know what they are. Knows what they are, just can’t quite grasp it.
Oliver reads the handwritten labels on one of the shelves. “ ‘Gothic.’ ‘Norman.’ These are styles of architecture…” He trails off as he studies the stones. “They look like pieces of buildings. Maybe ones that were destroyed in the Blitz? Theo would probably know.”
“All of London is filled with bits of buildings destroyed by the Blitz,” Beatrix points out. “What’s special about these?” She takes a stone from the shelf in front of her, no bigger than her fist. One side is rough-hewn, the other fluted with smooth grooves. Her breath catches.
“That could be a piece of a column,” Oliver muses. He points to another stone, carved in the shape of a leaf. “Maybe that’s the top.”