CHAPTER 16
September 1939
That first night in Binsey, the sisters curled up tightly in bed together. Flora whispered to Hazel, “Bridie’s nice.”
“Yes, she is,” Hazel answered. “And we must be just as lovely, like Mum said. This will all be over soon enough. England will win the war, and we’ll go home. We must be patient.”
Flora lay still and quiet, as if she’d just heard the first Hazel-story she didn’t altogether believe.
“Take me to Whisperwood,” Flora said, her tone demanding.
“Okay.” Hazel paused dramatically, taking a big breath before starting. “I see a shimmering door right there.” Hazel waved her hand through the air, and they snuggled closer as she found the words awaiting her.
“Not that long ago and not so far away, in a land that is right here,” Hazel whispered into the dark, “there was a place where anything could happen, where we might become anything we wish, where a river of stars runs through its woodlands. Keep your eyes open for hidden doorways! They’re everywhere, but visible only to those who are worthy. And we are worthy.”
“Yes,” Flora said, her voice soaked with sleepiness.
“The forest is thick with the sweet smell of pine and something like…”
“Candy,” Flora interjected.
Hazel said, “Yes, like melting caramel.”
“What are we?” Flora asked, snuggling closer, her eyes shut tight.
“Hold on. It’s coming. I feel it in the wind blowing through the trees. Follow me down the crooked path to the river. Keep up now, Flora.”
“I’m coming!”
“I think I have a paw… do you?”
“Oh, yes, it’s big,” Flora exclaimed. “What kind is it?”
“I think we are—”
“Lions! We are lions!” Flora cried out.
“Headed to the river to drink stars,” Hazel said. “Stars make lions stronger.”
Hazel’s voice took them through the forest, past a talking hawk, over a bridge made of glass, under a canopy of trees that sang songs, and to the river with an owl flying behind them keeping watch. And off, far off, the tiptop of a castle rose above; it was a wonderful place they might someday reach if they never gave up.
Flora was asleep before they reached the castle and Hazel stopped the story, thinking she too was just about to fall asleep, her eyelids heavy and thick. But then she didn’t. Instead, she thought of Mum and their empty bedrooms at home.
She slipped out of the bed and flicked on the small bedside lamp. On the dresser rested the postcard they would send Mum tomorrow. With the pencil from her knapsack, she sat on the edge of the bed to write with the postcard balanced on her knees.
She imagined her mum checking the postbox every hour looking for the note. What would she want to hear?
Dear Mum,
We are in a cozy cottage in Binsey with the Aberdeen family—a mum named Bridgette and boy named Harry, who chose us to come live with them. Please come visit. We are safe. We already miss you so much. Your loving daughters, Hazel and Flora.
She set the postcard on the dresser and crawled into bed next to her sister, wondering what kind of story they’d found themselves in the middle of—wondrous or horrifying, she couldn’t yet know.
Hazel dreamed of a postcard flying over London, then fluttering to the ground before it reached its destination, washing away down the gutter, rushing, rushing toward the sewers below Bloomsbury.
She woke to rain pattering on the rooftop and tinkling against the windowpanes. The dream wasn’t a premonition—she hoped—it was just the outside world entering the dream world. Hazel shook off a feeling of dread and rose quickly, enticed by the aroma of something rich and tasty.
Hazel had placed her hand on the brass doorknob when she realized a piece of paper had been slipped under the door. She picked it up.
In the soft morning light, Hazel looked at a pencil drawing of Berry. It was remarkably realistic, like a blurry photo, the stuffed animal’s fur thick and even worn thin on his paws where Flora held and rubbed him against her cheek. Berry sat up, his head flopped slightly to the left, face and fur soft in the pencil marks.
This drawing was obviously for Flora, and it was sweet. The kindness erased Hazel’s disturbing dream. She placed the paper on the wooden bedside table before heading to the kitchen, where Bridie was making porridge and sausage.
“Good morning,” Hazel said, unsure of her own voice in this quiet place.
Bridie turned. “Good morning, sweet pea.”
Hazel had never been called sweet pea before. She kind of liked it.
“You ready for some breakfast and tea?”
“I am. Flora is still sleeping. Should I wake her?”
“Let her be. This has all been quite the shock. Now have a seat, my dear.”
Hazel sat, crossing her legs at the ankles like the queen for she so wanted Bridie to know she had chosen well, that she had taken in polite and good girls. Bridie set the porridge in a creamware bowl, and a plate of mashed sausage smelled so divine that Hazel wanted to dive for it without asking.
The porridge was thick and lumpy, just the way Hazel liked it; a lake of cream floated on top, and Hazel dipped her spoon to watch the cream river through the porridge. She took her first bite. Though she’d never say such a thing out loud, it was so much better than Mum’s. What an awful thing to think.
“You like it?” Bridie said.
“Oh, yes, very much! The cream—”
“—is from our cow.”
“It’s not from the market?” It took Hazel a minute to think through this, never having given too much thought to where things came from, only that Mum bought milk in the market and that rationing had kept so much from them.
Bridie sat beside Hazel. “Yes, at first light Harry goes to milk our cow. We’re lucky. Not everyone can get such things right now.”
“I wish you had a cow that made sugar. It’s been so long.”
Bridie laughed softly. “You, my dear, are going to be just fine here in the Aberdeen home. Harry was right to choose you.”
Choose her.
Harry had chosen her.
Nothing could be done to suppress Hazel’s smile.
“And here he comes,” Bridie said, and pointed out the window. Harry appeared as a form of brown coat and red knit cap, jogging down the hill toward the house. In an instant, the rain stopped and the sun burst through a low flat cloud, ripping it apart like a piece of paper. Rays of light, filtered hazy in the mist, fell upon Harry as he paused at the field’s edge. He lifted his face to the warmth and smiled before running toward the front door.
What a place this was, Hazel thought. All the wide green space to run; the rippling of the sky that touched a horizon of trees unobscured by a cathedral or tall building. It was as if by taking a simple train ride the world had unfolded, presenting itself in long stretches of rolling hills and heather fields. Look, it said to Hazel, there is so much more than you ever knew. The feeling of little minnows swimming in her stomach—a thrill that this world would change her forever.
“Hathel!” A distressed cry rang out, and Hazel jumped from the table, tripping over Bridie’s foot in a rush to the bedroom, only steps away.
She hugged her sister close and told her they were safe and that there was a lovely breakfast waiting.
“I thought you left me!” said Flora.
“Never. I would never leave you.”