Page 52 of Strangers in Time

He opened the drawer of the desk and withdrew the George Medal. On the face of it was King George the Sixth, who had originated the honor to commemorate civilians who had shown exemplary bravery during wartime. On the obverse side was the eponymous Saint George slaying the dragon. The ribbon to which the medal was attached was crimson with five blue stripes. It was to be worn on the left side by men. Oliver had never worn his after it had been given him by the King, because why him and not others, especially those who had died? He put it back in the drawer.

He had looked at Imogen that night and said, quite sincerely, “I am living my dream by being here with you, my dear.”

She had smiled tenderly at his words and said that dreams were such starkly contrary things. He asked her what she meant.

“Dreams are never in context, are they? That’s the point of dreams, of reaching for something so impossible, so impractical, often something so undeserved, that the act of wishing for it defines more about us than the actual dream does.”

“But people can work towards their dream,” he had said. “You are writing a novel. That isyourdream. You work very hard at your craft, to realize that dream. Thus, if you do, you are certainly deserving of it. And that, my dear, puts the whole thing into the context which you argue is lacking.”

Oliver knew that his wife possessed a first-rate intellect, and was a superb debater, a skill she had demonstrated when they were at university together. Thus, he well knew his argument, however sound or well-intentioned, would not carry the day.

“My novel may be the best writing in the world, but if someone who can manage to have my jottings published does not like what I have written, my dream will never be realized. However, if what I have written is utter drivel, but lands in the hands of someone influential who loves such deplorable writing, I may see my book read by a great many. My dream will be realized, but so what? It’s all dependent on the whimsy of others.”

“You think too deeply of things, Imogen,” Oliver had responded, trying to draw his wife back from one of hermoods. “Dreams, either asleep or awake, can be silly and happy, or sad and sometimes frightening, but they are part of what makes us human. I daresay it can make an unbearable life at times tolerable. Is that so wrong?”

She had finished her port before answering. “It is not simply a question of wrong or right, Iggy.” This was her nickname for him, which he loved, because of the intimacy it implied. “It is a question of honesty. To dream is often to deceive oneself. We may dream so often about another sort of life that we forget to live the one that we already possess.”

“There is nothing wrong with aspiring to better things,” he had countered.

“And that is where the context is lost, because who is rightfully to judge what is better? Will a million pounds make things right?”

He had smiled. “Well, I, for one, would not decline such a sum if offered.”

She had glanced at the tin box and, he understood, to the pages within. “I do not wish to live an uninspired life. I also do not wish to live a life not of my own making. I do not want to spend my time seeking something because someone else tells me that what I have is not good enough.”

“But you enjoy writing,” he had said.

“Does anyone really truly enjoy anything?”

He was about to make a flippant remark in order to ease the increasing tension he was sensing from her when he, instead, finished his port and replied, “I see exactly what you mean, Imogen. We must make the best of what we have. To seek out something different merely because it is perceived better by standards laid out by people we may not even know? I would saythatis the height of self-deceit.”

She had gripped his hand and given him an imploring look. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes, Imogen, I do.”

It was sometime later that she had had another conversation with him, in this very room. It was a talk that had changed his life dramatically. No, that word was hardly potent enough. It had changedeverythingabout him and his world. And, most critically, his relationship with Imogen.

Not too very long after that, she was dead.

And he had acceded to what turned out to be her final wish, fully and completely.

So, as he did every time he came in here, Oliver rose and left the study, locking the door after him, without having added a singleword to the work in progress that constituted the only thing of his wife he had left.

Oliver did not dream anymore, either while sleeping or being wide-eyed awake. He apparently no longer had the stomach for it.

And perhaps that was why it was impossible for him to add a jot to his wife’s unfinished work.

He used his Alberti’s Disk once more to nimbly encrypt a message that represented all that he felt, and all that he had endured every second of his life since her passing.

I will forever love you, Imogen. And that love is matched only by how deeply and terribly I miss you.

BREATHLESS

THE DAY WAS NEARLYdone when Molly finally sat up in her bed with her cheeks stained reddish pink, her hair matted to her head, and her breathing sickeningly lopsided. She felt slow, feverish, and doddering, as though an illness had overtaken her. Mrs. Pride had knocked on the door several times, but Molly had simply not answered, and finally her old nanny had gone on her way. And then Molly had fallen asleep, apparently from mental exhaustion.

You must get a hold of yourself, Molly, because what good does crying ever do?

Ignoring the ache in her belly and head, for she’d had nothing to eat all day, she opened the letter from the sanatorium in Cornwall. The stationery was peculiarly stiff, and Molly thought she could detect an odd chemical odor from within its folds.

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