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pages—and his descriptions of weather and food made her smile; she could hear his voice clearly. And as she came to the end of each page, Tuck felt entirely alive. Juliet was certain that if Tuck had been killed, she would have sensed some absence, some loss—a glass would have shattered in her hand, her chest would have cramped. A devastation of such magnitude simply couldn’t occur without a person noticing it.
    Still, the idea of what he might be enduring terrified her. Her mind conjured up images of dank prison cells and rusty shackles. Was he hungry? Sleep deprived? Laboring beneath a ruthless sun? How long before he was set free? And how long before she heard from him again?
    By the time Juliet returned to school, she had determined to bury her worries in the daily muck of bandaging and suturing. The first morning back, striding into the dormitory’s pale-blue common room, she shrugged aside questions as to where she’d been—“Juliet, we were worried!”—believing that to mention the telegram would only etch it further into reality. She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want concern. She wanted to live in the world before the telegram, the world where Tuck was safe. So fierce was her resolve not to discuss her brother that she was momentarily annoyed when she spotted a letter from him that night on her dorm-room pillow.
    Hope surging, she tore open the letter, but when she noticed the date her hands went slack. One month before the telegram. Juliet almost threw the letter down before the strangeness of it being addressed to her at school inSavannah—where Tuck had never written—registered.
    Dearest Jules,
    It’s late here and I’m the only one awake except for the sentry and I wanted more than anything to write to you. It’s hard to say much in these letters, to tell the truth about anything, because anything that says too much about our movements or would lower morale will get struck right out. But so much has been buzzing through my head, and I didn’t know who else to talk to. Being over here has changed the way I think about so many things, and what I think about people, about myself. I used to believe in everybody’s fundamental goodness, and then came the Nazis, who seemed fundamentally evil. I never really believed in God, the idea of a God who made us and everything and watches over us, but now I think maybe we’re the ones responsible for making God. We can create justice if we make the right choices. But you have to keep making those right choices, even when it’s hard and scary, and it’s so easy to lose your way.
    What am I saying? I don’t know. Do you understand? Is it too much to think we can steer ourselves toward a better world? I thought that’s what I came over here for, to get the world back on course, to get history right, but sometimes I feel like the world is steering me.
    I wonder what you’re doing, Jules. It’s been so long since we talked.
    Sometimes when I’m scared I remember holding you in my arms when you were little. I remember the way you looked up at me, the trust in your face. That was the greatest feeling in the world. The memory keeps me calm, it keeps me safe. It’s why I’m here, to protect you and everything that hasn’t yet gone to rot.
    I’d really like you to pay Miss Van Effing a visit if you get a chance, show her thisletter. Okay? We can’t keep Raven Point a secret anymore. I know what happened to Cher Ami. We never should have let him go.
    Love,
    Tuck
    Juliet studied the handwriting—uneven, the end of each line sloping downward. Her eyes returned to his final sentences. Pay Miss Van Effing a visit  . . . s how her this letter  . . .
    What on earth was he talking about?
    She set the letter in her lap and gripped her bed. She had the same feeling she once had standing on the prow of a boat, when the ocean unexpectedly surged. After all those dutifully composed letters detailing encampments, after all those months of silence—this. It