Lamont’s letters were his sly supplements to the pieces that were appearing in the Islander Beacon. The published articles were quite popular, written in Lamont’s breezy style, but still peppered with the usual references to relentlessly cheery cockneys, courageous fire wardens and “the inimitable bulldog resistance of the British.” His letters to his parents were less reverent and sometimes more harrowing. Tel always shared them, and Marion was touched by the almost wondering pride with which he’d read them out loud.

After Laurette and Marion had finished washing the dishes, they joined Tel and Felicia in the living room. Tel was obviously impatient to start, sitting in his chair and holding the pages from Lamont’s letter. He glanced around at everyone to make sure he had their attention, and began.

Dear Mama and Papa,

First, I must thank you for the bottle of All Is Lost. So far it’s rendered edible everything from stale eggs to ancient meat to vegetables boiled to a mush. In remembrance of what I learned at Mama’s knee about sharing, I offered some to an English friend,

who, after one bite, coughed, wiped away a few tears and politely declined a second taste.

A homesick soldier from Texas, however, went mad for it, and has offered me money for more. If I had a case of the stuff and were a less honest and patriotic American, I might become a rich man selling it to GIs.

No doubt you have already heard that since D-Day, the Germans have stepped up their attacks. I’m told it’s not quite like what Londoners endured back in 40 and 41, but the Boche always have new and exciting methods of murder. The latest is a horrible new weapon called, with typical English understatment, “doodlebugs.” The only warning is a sort of purring buzz overhead followed by a moment of silence, followed inevitably by something blowing up, maybe a block away, maybe next door or down the street, maybe you.

I don’t believe there is any way to truly convey the terror to someone who’s not experienced it. You are going about your business when you realize what you are hearing overhead. And then there’s that moment when it stops, that vacuum, where you know the thing is falling and you wonder if you’ll even survive long enough to hear the blast when it lands.

You have just enough time in that silence to cower, or to roll out of bed and dash downstairs, or to run inside the nearest building, or to crawl under something, or to just embrace your child, your spouse, your friend, and pray it lands somewhere else —

Which in the city means you are praying for somebody else to die.

Yesterday afternoon I was on the way back to my room from the office when I heard it, and there was nothing for it but to dash for the nearest public shelter. I was sitting there trying to catch my breath and stop shaking when a kid, a boy who couldn’t be more than fourteen, left his family and came over and sat down next to me. I must have looked pretty bad, because he said in what can only be described as fatherly tones, “You’re alright here. Know what they call me? Lucky. Lucky Nobes, that’s me. The houses on either side of ours came down while I was home, and see? Not a scratch. Stick with us and you’ll be fine.”

I gave him what was probably a pretty weak smile and thanked him. He looked at me more closely and asked, “Hey, where are you from?”

I’ve learned there is no point in saying “Touperdu Island” because nobody knows where that is, so I just said I was from America, doing my best to sound like Humphrey Bogart. By this time Lucky’s little sister had wandered over and was staring at me, open-mouthed.

She pointed at my hands. “Why are you that color, mister?” she asked, causing several other faces to turn sharply in my direction.

I removed my hat so they could get a good look at my hair. “It was an aaaccident, kiddo,” I said, making my ayes as flat as possible.

“An accident?”

“Back home in Kansas, I worked in a pie factory…” I said.

I had her at the word “pie.” She sat down on my other side, her eyes boring into mine.

“…and my job was to use a great big ladle to stir a giant kettle of molasses as big as a swimming pool.”

“What’s molasses?”

“He means treacle, Maud,” her brother said.

“One day, I was minding my own business stirring the molasses, getting it just right for Shoo-Fly Pie, when I slipped and fell right into the vat! Fortunately, it was a union shop and they had a lifeguard on duty specially trained to swim in molasses, and he hopped in and pulled me out, but it was too late! I was coated from head to toe. And ever since then I’ve been this color.”

I heard a faint mumur from the rest of the adults. Her brother rolled his eyes and stood up.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, looking a little worried.

“Not one bit! But I do get a little crusty when it’s cold, and I can’t sit down on hot days or I’ll stick to the chair.”

That was perhaps going too far because she pursed her lips and drew back, but all my other listeners laughed and decided I was okay. The Camels I always carry cinched the deal. American tobacco is an amazing ice-breaker over here. We all sang a few songs. I even taught them that great Kansas favorite, “The Light on the Cove.” By the time the all-clear sounded I’d passed out the rest of my cigarettes and every child had an apple I’d magically removed from an ear or a mouth or a pocket. Lucky tells me I can hang around in the shelter with him and his sister any time.

Hugs to you, Mama, Papa, and everyone else, and a brotherly kiss on the cheek to the lovely Marion. Yes, I am staying as safe as possible, yes, I am taking every precaution a Duday of talent and ability can take, which isn’t everything but does give me a better chance than many. Send me more news of home when you can, and I will write back when I can.

Your loving and vigilant son,

Lamont

Papa Duday folded the letter carefully, still smiling. This was as happy as Marion ever saw him these days. She knew without anyone saying so that each letter was being tenderly stored someplace safe.

It was late. Laurette rose and said it was time she got back to Pond House. Papa Duday said he would walk with her. Felicia was yawning, ready for bed. She always slept more soundly after one of Lamont’s letters.

Papa Duday, Marion knew, was not sleeping well. When he got back from taking Laurette home, he would probably go into his workroom. When Marion asked what he did there, he just shrugged and said, “I study chemistry.” One evening, when she’d felt restless, she’d paused in front of the closed doorway to his workroom and listened. She’d heard pages turning, but the light under the door had flickered in a way that bothered her. She’d hurried back to her room and read instead of going down to the kitchen as she’d planned.

This time of evening, when the house had grown silent and dark, made her deeply uneasy.

Her days were crowded with activities. Committee meetings, visits, sewing, volunteering… And during the day even this big house had footsteps and voices. But at night, when doors were closed and lights were out, she could not shake off the sense that there was something hidden. Something wrong.

Something was hiding from her.

She had at first told herself she was being foolish. What did she know about families other than her own? What did she know, really, about what was normal?

But there was that thing, that monster in the courtyard two years ago. Her imagination, Papa Duday and Felicia had said, but she knew what she’d seen. Maybe it was gone. Maybe not. She hadn’t seen it since, but there remained echoes, shadows. There remained things that simply made no sense, didn’t fit into reality as Marion understood it or worse, fit into the reality she thought she’d left behind when she married Leon.

Maisie, for instance. Invisible Maisie, Marion called her. Unseen Maisie, that servant Tel had mentioned who came in sometimes in the morning. They said she was gone now, working like so many former servants in some factory, but sometimes when Marion came home, she found signs that Maisie had been there, something about the way things had been tucked into place, dust eradicated, sheets tucked in.

Certain convictions instilled in childhood could not be shrugged off. She was convinced there were dangers that the Dudays could not comprehend. Unbelievers, her father used to say, were blind to some realities, and as much as she loved the Dudays, everything she felt in this house after dark proved the truth of it.

Every night, before going to bed, she stopped, she listened and she knew the invisible world was present here.

And because only she could sense the danger, since her new parents were oblivious, it would be up to Marion to protect them.

At least she could do that, even if she could not change Leon being lost and Lamont being in harm’s way.

Funny, soft, feckless Lamont. Stay safe, Lamont, she thought, as she walked to her room. Leave the heroics to my husband, wherever he may be.

And then she said a quick, guilty prayer for Leon’s safety.