I wrote to him. Of course I wrote to him. Piles of letters with our precious store of Alizarine ink and paper. I wrote about the seemingly endless camel rides, until my backside ached and my arms itched. The oxen with their curved horns that carried our boxes strapped to their humped backs. The pith helmet Grandfather bought me, like an inverted soup bowl. In it, I felt like a true adventurer. The round, grass-roofed huts where we stayed in each village. The dugout canoe we took down the Senegal River. The donkeys and goats and the one tame lion weaving in and out of the scattered buildings. The naked children standing in the mud at the river’s edge. The carved wooden skull mask, traded from an old man along the river for a little sketch of France. The insects. Oh, God, the insects. The sudden fever, where, sweating on a bullock hide on the floor of a hut, I lost track of days. The letters that I planned to mail in one great stack when we reached Saint-Louis at the end of the river. The letters, all lost when one of our canoes overturned. I could only cling to Grandfather, soaked and still weak, watching them float away, one by one, in a trail of white squares.

When we reached Saint-Louis, we finally saw a newspaper. We heard what we hadn’t in our meandering year and a half on the river, swatting away mosquitoes, sleeping in huts, and transcribing Berber. We heard that while we were gone, the world had gone to war. In a café, as French as any in Paris, we spread out newspapers and read while our bitter coffee grew cold. The newspapers were in French and out-of-date, so we read through weeks of news at once. Things growing tense in Paris, war declared, young boys marching from train stations in their uniforms of blue and red. Those first battles, in a rushed and bloody autumn—Tannenberg, the Marne, Arras, Ypres, the Aisne. So many other names, scattered across France and Belgium, that I cut a map from a newspaper and marked each and every one with a blot of ink.

Grandfather hung his head over the newspapers at that little café table in Saint-Louis. “Thanks to God that your father wasn’t sent to this. Maud, she never could have borne keeping house by herself.”

The first he’d spoken of my parents in years. “Mother has borne being alone for enough years, hasn’t she?”

He curled his tattooed hands around the coffee cup. “Not the being alone, but the managing. Though Maud would never admit it, your father, he was a steadying influence. Without him, the household would have crumbled.”

“But, without her, it did.” I leaned back in my chair and spread my fingers wide on the café table. “When she left, Father did, too. He retreated into himself.”

“Sometimes we need people without ever realizing it,” he said, with a bowed head.

I ran my finger over my map and sent up a quiet prayer.

So many blots were near to the unassuming peacefulness of Mille Mots that I wrote to Madame immediately, asking for news. I didn’t ask after Luc, but I hoped she’d read it through my words. I didn’t know where to write to him.

Though I wished it was more, to find even that one letter from Luc waiting in Laghouat was more than I expected. Only one to let me know that, at the start of the war, he was still safe. Only one to let me know that he hadn’t forgotten me.

I tucked it in my camisole, close to my heart, and buttoned on a fresh blouse. Out in the lounge, Grandfather, draped in a loose cotton robe, sat on one of the low sofas, his own letters spread out.

“This is a blessed mess. All of it.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. He needed a trim. “Glandale says the classes are nearly empty. The school has sent all the boarders home. The German master—do you remember Grausch?—he was sacked. His replacement is teaching Flemish. Flemish!” He tossed aside a sheet of paper. “And Johns, his sons are joined up, all six of them. One lost already at Arras.”

I pushed aside pillows and dropped onto the squashy sofa. A mug of tea steamed quietly by the brass pot. “Luc wrote.”

He nodded. “And?”

I swallowed. “He’s gone to war.” I shrugged. “What did I expect?”

“A chance to realize what was happening. A chance to know there was a war on before he said goodbye.”

I let my fingers trail over the scattered envelopes, strewn on the cushion between us. “You receive nothing but bad news, I receive a goodbye. All reminders of how the world changed while we were gone.”

“Ah, it’s not all bad news.” He picked up an envelope. “I heard from Charles Rennie Mackintosh. You remember Toshie? Was a draftsman with your father at Honeyman and Keppie when they were apprentices.”

Mr. Mackintosh was an architect of note and a familiar visitor at our house, all of those times he wanted to escape Glasgow to bemoan the lack of appreciation for bold architecture. “You knew him, too?”

“Not well.” He traced the edge of the stamp. “I met him at your parents’ wedding.”

I poured myself out a mug of tea. Mint. “Kind of him to write.”

“He’s in Suffolk right now, but is putting together a little exhibit. With so many men gone, he thought to highlight the work of some of the women at the Glasgow School of Art.”

I brought the mug up to my face and inhaled the sharp steam. “Mother loved it there, didn’t she?”

“Maud was a whirlwind when she was feeling creative. Yes, she loved it.”

“Then why did she leave school?”

“You know the answer to that. She met your father. She had you.”

“She was only there for a handful of years. Less than that. How much could she have learned?”

“How much could you learn from one summer and a few missives?” He slid Mr. Mackintosh’s letter back into the envelope. “She produced plenty. And that’s why young Mackintosh wrote. He asked for permission to exhibit a few of Maud’s pieces.”

All of those times I’d watch Mother through the window, sitting in front of an empty easel. “Do any still exist?”

“They do.” He crushed the envelope in his fist. “Ah, but they’re at Fairbridge.”

I pulled a pillow closer and tucked it up on my lap. “Grandfather, we’ve been away for a long time. At some point we need to stop wandering and return home.”

“Home?” He tossed the letter next to the teapot. “The world—”

“Is our home. I know.” I pressed my lips to the hot mug, took a scalding sip. “I don’t want to return to Fairbridge any more than you do.”

He exhaled. “I know.” He stared out the window, at the rain falling straight down. “Staying away, it doesn’t help. We can’t avoid sorrow.”

“Have the past three and a half years been sorrowful?”

He reached out and touched my hand. His fingers were cold against mine. “Of course not. But things will change, whether we’re there to see them or not. Look at what we missed while we were wandering in the wilderness.”

“Not everything has changed. Some things are constant. Today is Christmas Eve.”

“Ah, so it is.”

“Merry Christmas, Grandfather,” I said, and in my mind I sent out another. Merry Christmas, Luc, wherever you are.

Maman wrote to me of Christmas at Mille Mots. Her household had swelled to include three families of refugees—two Belgian and one French from near Saint-Quentin. Five children among them, so the hearth again had a row of shoes lined up, waiting for Père Noël to fill with nuts and candy. Not like Christmas used to be, she wrote. We didn’t have much of a réveillon feast. A goose couldn’t be found in all the valley, but we had a pair of chickens stuffed with prunes. Oysters, chestnuts, a fine Bayonne ham I’ve been saving.

My mouth, rusty with the taste of stale water and dried bread, watered.

The five little ones were worried they would be without Christmas this year, so far from their homes. The oldest amongst them is only eight and still has nightmares of his house burning. I hope to distract them. I gathered up the children and they helped me arrange the crèche. They implored me, and so I brought in some clay from the garden and sculpted five new santons to tuck around the manger. Do you remember when we used to do that? How many shepherds in the crèche have the face of my Luc?

She tried to sound dismissive, as though Christmas just wasn’t what it used to be, and maybe it wasn’t. But to me, reading her letter in between trudges through knee-high snow, through the half-frozen mud beneath, eating cold turnip and barley soup, my only carols the shells overhead, it sounded perfect.

Christmas passed by and, in the damp thaw of spring, I got leave, at last.

I arrived at a château edged in daffodils, ringing with the sound of laughter. Gray icicles melted from the roof. Overhead a swallow arched across the aching blue sky. Like a cool wash of water, the laughter, the yellow and blue, the soft dripping of the icicles, sluiced away the past ten months. In front of Mille Mots, I was cleansed.

As I stood on the front walk, breathing in tranquility, the front door pushed open. A boy in short trousers, followed closely by two curly-headed girls, tumbled out onto the lawn. He had one of my old footballs tucked under one arm, and the girls were in hot pursuit. I watched as the children, pink-cheeked and laughing, disappeared around the side of the house.

“They remind me of you and Clare.” Maman stood in the open doorway. “Younger, yes. But always off looking for adventure.” There were new lines on her face, and had she always been so small? But she was Maman.

I stepped forward, uncertain.

“Mon poussin.” Her voice broke with a little ripple. “Oh, my Luc.”