everything. My friends are all dead. The men who fight alongside me are strangers, always dying before I can learn
their names. Their faces are nothing but a smudge in my mind.
My hands and feet are in agony from the cold, but at least pain is better than thought. I am a shattered thing now, I know it. I can feel my soul sticking out at twisted angles
like a broken limb. All I can hope for is numbness and an end.
Forgive me,
Sebastian
Chapter 9
A STITCH IN TIME
‘Sebastian . . .’ Triss was barely aware that she had whispered the name aloud.
What had she expected? A list of demands from the mysterious ‘him’, perhaps. She had not been ready for
this
.
Triss held Sebastian’s letter in unsteady hands, shaken by how much and how little she remembered him. Triss had already known that there had been special days that she had enjoyed with
him, such as the birthday when he had helped her dress as an Egyptian queen, and a picnic outing where he had carried her on his shoulders for hours. These were family folklore, recited by her
parents in a solemn ritual fashion on the few occasions when they felt it appropriate to mention their lost son. Over the years her parents had herded Triss’s woolly memories into the neat
pens of their stories, until she no longer knew what she actually remembered.
This was different. This was shocking, like the warmth of a teardrop falling on her skin. Suddenly Sebastian was a person, a lost, frightened, desperate person in pain. It caused her a deep pang
of sympathetic horror, and she realized that she
did
feel love for the lost Sebastian, despite the fog of the years.
But he’s dead.
Sebastian had died five years before, during a bitter winter. There had been a letter from his commanding officer, talking about a detonation in his side of the trench, his deepest regrets, no
possibility that anybody could have survived. There could be no mistake.
Triss could make no sense of her parents’ behaviour. The drawer was crammed full of envelopes. For months then, or perhaps even years, Sebastian’s messages had been arriving, and her
parents had known about it. They had traded solemn words about their long-lost son, and all the while they had been locking his heartfelt letters in a drawer and pretending they did not exist.
Their dignified grief was a lie. Everything was a lie.
Her parents had talked about the letters being sent by ‘that man’, the mysterious ‘he’ who they thought might have attacked Triss. Now that she thought about it though,
they had never said that ‘he’ had actually written them. Indeed, her father had said that receiving a letter from ‘the man himself’ would be different from ‘the
usual’.
How could Sebastian still be fighting in a war that had been over for five years, and how could he write letters from beyond the grave? If they were not cruel and clever fakes, and if Sebastian
really had written that desperate note, he needed help. Either way, Triss needed to understand the riddle of the letters.
The beginnings of an idea started to form in Triss’s mind. The drawer was crammed to bursting. How often had this strange flitting thing been invading the Crescent house to deliver
letters? Every month? Every week? Or every night?
Whatever it is, it’s weird and scary, but it’s also smaller than me. So if it comes again tomorrow night, maybe I can catch it.
It was raining steadily, and the raindrops fell with a rustle, not a splash. They fell right into the house, settling on the carpet and furniture, and Triss could see that
they were actually dead leaves. They landed on the heads and shoulders of the family as they sat at the breakfast table, all trying to pretend that nothing was happening.
‘Triss did it!’ Pen was shouting, strident with glee. ‘Look!’ The younger girl pointed towards the ceiling, and when Triss glanced upwards she realized to her horror
that great holes had been gnawed in the ceilings and the roof, so
their names. Their faces are nothing but a smudge in my mind.
My hands and feet are in agony from the cold, but at least pain is better than thought. I am a shattered thing now, I know it. I can feel my soul sticking out at twisted angles
like a broken limb. All I can hope for is numbness and an end.
Forgive me,
Sebastian
Chapter 9
A STITCH IN TIME
‘Sebastian . . .’ Triss was barely aware that she had whispered the name aloud.
What had she expected? A list of demands from the mysterious ‘him’, perhaps. She had not been ready for
this
.
Triss held Sebastian’s letter in unsteady hands, shaken by how much and how little she remembered him. Triss had already known that there had been special days that she had enjoyed with
him, such as the birthday when he had helped her dress as an Egyptian queen, and a picnic outing where he had carried her on his shoulders for hours. These were family folklore, recited by her
parents in a solemn ritual fashion on the few occasions when they felt it appropriate to mention their lost son. Over the years her parents had herded Triss’s woolly memories into the neat
pens of their stories, until she no longer knew what she actually remembered.
This was different. This was shocking, like the warmth of a teardrop falling on her skin. Suddenly Sebastian was a person, a lost, frightened, desperate person in pain. It caused her a deep pang
of sympathetic horror, and she realized that she
did
feel love for the lost Sebastian, despite the fog of the years.
But he’s dead.
Sebastian had died five years before, during a bitter winter. There had been a letter from his commanding officer, talking about a detonation in his side of the trench, his deepest regrets, no
possibility that anybody could have survived. There could be no mistake.
Triss could make no sense of her parents’ behaviour. The drawer was crammed full of envelopes. For months then, or perhaps even years, Sebastian’s messages had been arriving, and her
parents had known about it. They had traded solemn words about their long-lost son, and all the while they had been locking his heartfelt letters in a drawer and pretending they did not exist.
Their dignified grief was a lie. Everything was a lie.
Her parents had talked about the letters being sent by ‘that man’, the mysterious ‘he’ who they thought might have attacked Triss. Now that she thought about it though,
they had never said that ‘he’ had actually written them. Indeed, her father had said that receiving a letter from ‘the man himself’ would be different from ‘the
usual’.
How could Sebastian still be fighting in a war that had been over for five years, and how could he write letters from beyond the grave? If they were not cruel and clever fakes, and if Sebastian
really had written that desperate note, he needed help. Either way, Triss needed to understand the riddle of the letters.
The beginnings of an idea started to form in Triss’s mind. The drawer was crammed to bursting. How often had this strange flitting thing been invading the Crescent house to deliver
letters? Every month? Every week? Or every night?
Whatever it is, it’s weird and scary, but it’s also smaller than me. So if it comes again tomorrow night, maybe I can catch it.
It was raining steadily, and the raindrops fell with a rustle, not a splash. They fell right into the house, settling on the carpet and furniture, and Triss could see that
they were actually dead leaves. They landed on the heads and shoulders of the family as they sat at the breakfast table, all trying to pretend that nothing was happening.
‘Triss did it!’ Pen was shouting, strident with glee. ‘Look!’ The younger girl pointed towards the ceiling, and when Triss glanced upwards she realized to her horror
that great holes had been gnawed in the ceilings and the roof, so
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