The next photograph caught him unawares, plunging into his chest like a bayonet. A feeling he remembered all too well. Theo sat on a duckboard pathway, pretending to row through the ocean of rotting, stinking mud that surrounded him with two rusted entrenching tools. Each and every bomb crater was full to the brim—and would eventually become home to the poor souls that had failed to escape from them, doomed to a muddy grave.

And Theo would be one of them.

Michael was on his feet in the next moment, the photographs scattered around him. He shoved a hand through his hair, barely able to catch his breath. His heart hammered in his chest; Passchendaele had become a nightmare he had never woken up from.

The door’s lock being turned with a decisive thunk made him flinch, reminding him of the sound of a gun being loaded, a single shot that had left his life in tatters. He braced himself, sitting on the edge of his father’s desk, letting it take some of his weight as his legs stretched out in front of him.

A soft, warm hand slipped into his, smaller and more delicate than his own. “Michael?” Emmeline murmured. Her free hand stroked his back, as though attempting to comfort a panicked horse. “All the mud—was that Passchendaele?”

I died in hell. They called it Passchendaele.

He made a gruff noise, his head bowed in defeat.

“You were with him when he died, weren’t you?” Emmeline pressed her hand to his cheek. He trapped it there with his own, never wanting her to leave. 

“Mm. They’d discharged me from the hospital tent after my injuries. Theo was helping me get used to the crutch. Blasted thing.” The heavy toll of the day weighed on him, even all these years later. If they’d discharged him a day later, how different would life be now? “Theo was terrified of drowning,” he said, misery constricting his throat with every word that passed through. “Did you know that?”

“I know he nearly drowned when you were younger.” Emmeline’s sigh was deep.

Michael opened his mouth, but words finally failed him in a pitiful croak. Emmeline showed no hesitation; she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.

Home. He was home.

He responded in kind, his wide shoulders engulfing hers as he swept her up into his arms. Emmeline’s captivating violet perfume well and truly ensnared him, her silken chocolate hair brushing against his face, as gentle as a lover.

“Oh, Michael,” Emmeline said, her voice wobbling once more.

Hurried footsteps passing outside the room had him clearing his throat and wrestling his emotions back under control. He pulled back—only to see trails of tears running down Emmeline’s face. 

Michael fetched a clean handkerchief from his pocket, rubbing his thumb over the embroidered family crest, before dabbing at her cheeks. “Blast it. I’m sorry,” he offered. “I didn’t mean to fall to pieces.” He shot a dark look at the photographs that lay scattered around the blood-red sofa.

“You have nothing to apologise for, Michael.” Her mouth pressed together in a hard line. “We all have terrible memories that pull the rug out from under us. We just need someone to catch us when we fall.”

“And you’ve always been there for me, Emmeline. Always.” He wiped away her final tear with his thumb, letting his hand linger on her cheek. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. Don’t think I did not appreciate you.” On the rack of guilt and grief, the last thing he wanted was to be comforted by Emmeline, the only woman he had ever loved, for his most shameful act. “The letters you wrote to me when I was at the front, especially in the months after he died… They were the only thing keeping me going. The photographs you’d send to me of the family, of Dora, of you. You were the only light in my darkness.” Guiding me home.

Emmeline gazed up at him, drinking in every word. His heart thudded as her eyes drifted down to linger on his lips.

“You’re so precious to me, Emmeline,” he murmured.