She had read everything. Most books twice, thrice, annotating her own notes again and again. Then she read again. More pen marks, more ink stains beneath her fingernails.

  The tears came less frequently, but the pain became more acute, more focused in the area of her heart. That organ, so ill used, squeezed her chest, threatened her breath. Oliver would sit with her during these moments, rubbing her back.

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  Every letter to Paris remained unanswered. The war was in full swing now. Her home, torn in two.

  On dark nights, Oliver coaxes her to bed with gentle kisses and promises of fresh eyes in the morning.