Page 11 of Spellbinding Spirit

“You too,” I say, trying not to let my nerves show.

Mrs Harris ushers us into the sitting room where a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits wait on a coffee table. “I gather you’re looking into Sally,” she says as we sit. “It’s a story that’s been whispered about for generations in my family. My grandmother Lillian was Sally’s sister.”

Although I already know all of this, my pulse quickens because her words make Sally feel much more real than anything I've read about her. “What do you know about her? What did your grandmother tell you about Sally?”

“Not as much as I had liked to,” Mrs Harris sighs. “Lillian was a child when Sally passed. But she did say that after Sally died, Mrs Bryant, the wife of the master of Greenview Manor, came to the family. She brought a small chest of Sally’s things. Said she thought it was only right we should have them.”

“What was in the chest?” Sebastian asks, leaning forward slightly.

“A few personal items,” Mrs. Harris says. “A book, some dried flowers, and letters. Most of them were from George including the last letter he sent her.”

I feel my breath catch. “Do you still have it?”

Mrs Harris smiles. “Of course. It’s been sitting in the attic for years. Alex, love, could you please fetch the little brown chest?”

Alex nods and heads upstairs. The sound of his boots echoes faintly as we sit in tense anticipation.

When he returns he’s carrying a small, weathered chest. Its edges are worn smooth with age and the brass hinges dulled but intact. He sets it carefully on the coffee table and Mrs Harris motions for me to open it.

The smell of aged paper and dried flowers greets me. There’s a slim, leather-bound book with pages yellowed with time, and a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon. Beneath them is a delicate spray of pressed flowers, so brittle they seem to whisper of a long-forgotten summer.

Mrs Harris watches me closely. “You’re welcome to take the letters with you if you think they’ll help you with your research.”

I look up at her, my throat tight with gratitude. “Thank you. This means more than I can say.”

Mrs Harris nods, her expression kind. “I think Sally would want someone to know her story.”

After we leave Mrs Harris, we don’t have much time before we have to leave for our investigation but I couldn’t resist heading back to Sebastian’s to take a peek at those letters.

Sebastian stretches out on the sofa, one arm slung lazily along the backrest and his other hand cradling a mug of tea. The little chest from Mrs Harris sits open on the coffee table between us, the letters carefully arranged in date order.

“Go on, then,” Sebastian says, nodding at the stack. “Let’s see what young George has to say for himself.”

I smile faintly, lifting the first letter from the pile. The paper is yellowed and fragile but the writing is surprisingly neat with ink that’s faded but still legible.

“Okay, this one’s dated 23 April 1915,” I say, clearing my throat. “Just after he arrived at Yp… Ypres.”

Sebastian leans back, his expression softening. “Hit me.”

23 April 1915

Dear Sally,

Well, we’ve made it. This place... it ain’t like I thought it’d be. You read about war in the papers, but the papers don’t tell you about the smell. Mud, smoke, and worse than that. Can’t wash the stink out of your nose, no matter what you do.

The lads are keeping their spirits up best they can. They joke about the rats—they’re big as cats here—but I can see it in their eyes. Same as I feel. We’re all just waiting. Don’t know for what, exactly, but it’s there, hanging over us like a bad storm.

I think about you all the time, my love. Every night when I lay my head down I try to picture you back home. The way your hair catches the light, the way you laugh. It keeps me steady, thinking about you. I’ve not had a letter yet but that’s alright. I know you’ll write when you can. And in the meantime I’ll keep writing, because it helps. Makes me feel like I’m not so far away.

Yours always, George.

I lower the letter and glance at Sebastian. He’s staring at the ceiling and idly drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “Rats as big as cats, eh?” he says, his tone light but his expression thoughtful.

“Guess the papers didn’t prepare him for that,” I reply, setting the letter aside. “Or the rest of it.”

“Poor lad,” Sebastian murmurs. “He doesn’t seem to want to be there. But then did any of them want to be?”

I nod, picking up the next letter. “This one’s a bit later, 1stof May. Let’s see how he’s holding up.”

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