The Game of Love and Death(79)

Annabel sat at Ethan’s desk. She found an envelope. She dipped his fountain pen in the ink and addressed it properly, as Helen had showed her. She’d memorized Henry’s address from the letter he’d written to her asking about her bicycle riding. She attached the stamp and put it in the slot. The mailman would deliver it the next afternoon.

The whispering stopped, but no one came for Annabel, who fell asleep on Ethan’s bed and dreamed about him. It wasn’t a good dream. In it, Ethan was a sailor in a war, and he died. The dream made her cry. She woke when Mama called her down to supper, glad it was just a dream and not real life. She dried her face and went downstairs to eat. She couldn’t remember being this hungry in her entire life.





BEFORE long, Henry would have to leave his rented room for the Majestic to do his sound check for the night’s show. A week ago, he’d have been out the door already, counting down the minutes until he could see Flora again. They hadn’t replaced her since her departure, and she was spending all of her time at the airfield, breaking in the new Staggerwing Helen had purchased. Henry was now singing Flora’s numbers, but he wouldn’t perform “Someday,” no matter how much Sherman and the audience begged. The audience, he ignored. Sherman and the band, he promised a new song as soon as the right idea struck.

He’d been trying to write one, but all that he’d produced were notes to Flora, notes he knew he’d never send.

Someday, we will climb the Eiffel Tower.

Someday, we will lie on the sand beneath an Italian sun.

Someday, we will play music in New York City.

Someday …

There were so many of them, each more vivid than the last. He’d torn the page into strips so there was one wish on each ribbon of paper. These, he slipped into his jacket pocket when Mrs. Kosinski knocked, because they were only meant for one set of eyes.

Henry opened his door.

“This came for you in the post.” Mrs. Kosinski stood there in her housecoat, examining the letter. “Looks like little-girl handwriting, if you ask me.”

He held out his hand. After a moment, Mrs. Kosinski relinquished the envelope. She waited in the doorway.

“Thank you,” Henry said, ignoring the look of disappointment on her face.

He closed his door, leaned against it, and eased open the flap, expecting a letter from Annabel. But it was from Ethan. He read it twice, the second time sitting on his bed because the contents were so bewildering. On its surface, Ethan’s tale made no sense. But below that, in the part of Henry that could feel the truth of things as easily as he felt music, as deeply as he felt bound to Flora, he knew everything Ethan had written was true. It was true, and it changed everything, for all of them.

He put the letter into his pocket next to the someday notes. For a moment, he wondered what he should do, because he did not want to look foolish in front of Flora. But only for a moment. And then he had his hat and his coat. And he was out the door, for he was not going to the Majestic.

“Musta been some letter!” Mrs. Kosinski called out after him.

He did not reply.





GOING on instinct alone, Henry took a cab to the airstrip. He spent the last of his money doing so. Had he guessed wrong, he’d have been stranded there, miles from home. It was a possibility he didn’t let himself consider. And he found her exactly where he’d imagined she’d be, working alone on her new plane, a Staggerwing the color of a candied apple. Dressed in coveralls, she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, as if it had been a long day with much to do. But she looked happy — so content Henry almost turned away and began the long walk back to the club.

He couldn’t resist watching her a moment longer, taking in the way the slanting light found her, the way she seemed to know exactly what she was doing as she circled the red Staggerwing, studying it from every side. If he could have left her to this happiness, knowing he was leaving her free to do this thing she loved, he would’ve, without a second thought.

But if he could not persuade her to love him, she would die.

That was the end of the Game Ethan had spelled out in his letter. Henry wished it had been otherwise. Had he been the player cursed to die, that would be different. He would have hated such a fate, but not nearly so much, particularly since the Game had brought them together.

The sky darkened as Henry stood there, weighing his options. The ruin of the situation and the cruelty of the Game sank in fully. He saw two choices: He could keep the truth secret and make one last play for her, ask her one last time to love him. If she agreed, and did not know her life depended on it, then he would know she was telling the truth. Or he could tell Flora of the letter and use it as leverage. Surely loving him was preferable to death.

But to love someone in order to avoid death: This was no form of love at all. This was cowardice. Flora would never choose it.

As he stood, he realized a third option.

He’d tell her the truth. If she refused him, he would find Death, and he would offer his own life in trade. Would it be enough? It had to be. It was all he had left to give.

Flora finally noticed him. “Don’t you have a show tonight?” She tucked a lock of stray hair behind her ear.

“I had something more important to do.”

“Henry,” she said, her voice full of warning.

“I won’t take much of your time,” he said, walking closer. “There’s something … something you ought to know. Is there someplace we can go, someplace where we’re not outside like this?”