Blackout

But how could even love repay him for the years, the youth he’d sacrificed for her?
“I wish we could stand here forever,” he said, pulling away from her, “but we’d better—” There was a flicker of light. “He’s back.” Colin pushed her behind the pillar. And a moment later he said, “That’s not a torch. It’s the shimmer. The drop’s already opening again.”
“No, it isn’t,” Polly said. “It’s from outside. A flare, I think.” But it must have been an incendiary because a yellow-orange light began to fill the aisle.
She hadn’t realized they were in the bay that held The Light of the World. As the light grew, as golden as the light inside the lantern, she could see the painting more clearly than she ever had. And Mr. Humphreys was right. There was something new to see every time you looked at it.
She had been wrong in thinking Christ had been called up against his will to fight in a war. He didn’t look—in spite of the crown of thorns—like someone making a sacrifice. Or even like someone determined to “do his bit.” He looked instead like Marjorie had looked telling Polly she’d joined the Nursing Service, like Mr.
Humphreys had looked filling buckets with water and sand to save St. Paul’s, like Miss Laburnum had looked that day she came to Townsend Brothers with the coats.
Humphreys had looked filling buckets with water and sand to save St. Paul’s, like Miss Laburnum had looked that day she came to Townsend Brothers with the coats.
He looked like Captain Faulknor must have looked, lashing the ships together. Like Ernest Shackleton, setting out in that tiny boat across icy seas. Like Colin helping Mr. Dunworthy across the wreckage.
He looked … contented. As if he was where he wanted to be, doing what he wanted to do.
Like Eileen had looked, telling Polly she’d decided to stay. Like Mike must have looked in Kent, composing engagement announcements and letters to the editor.
Like I must have looked there in the rubble with Sir Godfrey, my hand pressed against his heart. Exalted. Happy.
To do something for someone or something you loved—England or Shakespeare or a dog or the Hodbins or history—wasn’t a sacrifice at all. Even if it cost you your freedom, your life, your youth.

“— was dead,” Sir Godfrey said. “But he’s arrived, ‘despite all obstacles, true love triumphant.’ ”
“Yes,” she said, “but I—”
He shook his head to silence her. “The times were out of joint,” he said. “It would not have been suitable, Lady Mary.”
“No,” she said, wishing she could tell him why it wouldn’t have been, that she could tell him who she really was.
Like Viola, she thought. Sir Godfrey had named her well. She couldn’t tell him why she’d been here or why she had to leave, couldn’t tell him how he’d saved her life as much as she’d saved his, couldn’t tell him how much he meant to her.
She had to let him think she was abandoning him for a wartime romance. “I’d stay till after the pantomime if I could—” she began.
“And spoil the ending? Don’t be a fool. Half of acting is knowing when to make one’s exit. And no tears,” he said sternly. “This is a comedy, not a tragedy.”
She nodded, wiping at her cheeks.
“Good,” he said, and smiled at her. “Fair Viola—”
“Polly!” Binnie called from the top of the stairs. “Eileen says to hurry!”
“Coming!” she said. “Sir Godfrey, I—”
“Polly!” Binnie bellowed.
She darted forward, kissed Sir Godfrey on the cheek, and ran for the stairs, calling to Binnie, who was leaning over the railing, looking down at her, “Go tell Eileen I’m coming now!”
Binnie raced off, and Polly ran up the stairs. “Viola!” Sir Godfrey called to her as she reached the top. “Three questions more before we part.”
She turned to look back down over the railing at him. “ ‘What is your will, my lord?’ ”
“Did we win the war?”
She had thought she couldn’t be amazed by anything after Colin, but she had been wrong.
He knows, she thought wonderingly. He’s known since that first night in St. George’s. “Yes,” she said. “We won it.”
“And did I play a part?”
“Yes,” she said with absolute certainty.
“I didn’t have to do Barrie, did I? No, don’t tell me, or my courage will fail me altogether.”
Polly’s laugh caught. “Was that your third question?” she managed to ask.
“No, Polly,” he said. “Something of more import.” And she knew it must be. He had never, except for that one scene in The Admirable Crichton, called her by her real name.
“What is it?” she asked. Will I ever see you again?
No.
Do I love you?
Do I love you?
Yes, for all time.
He stepped forward and grasped the staircase’s railing, looked up at her earnestly. “Is it a comedy or a tragedy?”
He doesn’t mean the war, she thought. He’s talking about all of it—our lives and history and Shakespeare. And the continuum.
She smiled down at him. “A comedy, my lord.”
There was an ungodly crash from the stage. “Alf! I told you not to touch nothin’!” Binnie shouted.
“I never! The scrim just fell down.”
“The scrim!” Sir Godfrey bellowed. “Alf Hodbin, I told you not to mess about with those ropes!”
“Don’t try to pick it up,” Binnie’s voice warned. “You’ll tear it!”
“Touch nothing!” Sir Godfrey roared, galloping up the stairs past Polly and out onto the stage, where she could hear Alf and Binnie both insisting, “I didn’t do nothin’! I swear!”
“ ‘They have all rushed down to the beach,’ ” Polly murmured, looking after him, and then turned and ran down into the theater and up the aisle to where Eileen and Mr. Dunworthy and Colin stood.