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In even her darkest moments, Charity was a birdsong. A sort of lyrical, vivacious warmth that reminded you that even now, in the midst of persecution and hardship, beautiful things still grew. Mother birds, still providing for their fledglings under the glow of the sun. The way that very sunlight, furrowing down at them from various points of the sky, continued to rise and fall, day-by-day. Some things were constant; some things toughed it out. Like Charity.
A stifled laugh unfurls behind Aliceâs lips, still nibbling at the scone as she reaches for her tea. She had been in Charityâs kitchen on numerous occasions, witnessed its sparkly sheen before the typhoon; flour spun about the room like a dust-devil, buttering itself over each conceivable surface it encountered. Charity wasnât wrong in her testimony, and Alice certainly had the evidence to fortify it. But she could hardly say she minded. Mess gave her something to do: something to clear up, something to occupy herself with, something with which to busy her overwrought, restless fingers. After all, some things were difficult to let go of: her overzealous heart, reined in by her motherâs straightening-up, her grooming. Eccentricities Alice had inherited as an afterthought.
She sips at her tea to clear her throat. âI think itâs perfectly forgivable when the end product is as good as yours. If you tasted my cooking, youâd strip me of my right to make mess entirely,â she says; half joking, half not. From birth, her mother had impressed upon her an obstinate duty to manage herself, bred in the bone to tauten and pull together her wild escapades. Bare feet muddied by dirt were scrubbed, nails bitten were filed down, teacups detonated were swept under the rug. âAt least Iâll know how to find you if I ever lose you,â Alice remarks from behind her cup, gently pressed to her lips. It is a thought that unnerves her a little; the mental picture of Godricâs Hollow without Charity Burbage, the cobblestone pathways hollowed out by her absence. No lacquered, warm light in this grey village; no bright smiles or lemon tea or food spreads with blood, sweat and tearsâso many tearsâpoured into their preparation. It is a thought she cannot bring herself to consider right now, one thatâit must be saidâdoes not even cross her mind now fully formed. It passes by unrecognised, in all likelihood to be revisited later, when she can truly identify it; when she is alone.
Alice furrows her brow, only slightly, as she watches Charity stumble over her words; how the right ones remained suspended somewhere just beyond her reach, unable to reconcile the truth to what she feels she should reveal to her now. Alice pulls back the evaluation in her eye, the scrutiny, and lets the words fall where they need to. Iâm happy to have something to share: a half-truth, through which Alice easily peers. In all things, that has not changed. As she listens, Charityâs expressions expose the sentiments oscillating beneath them: Iâm happy to have something to share, because before I shared everything with Althea, my wife, and now I have no-one. That, Alice supposed, they could share. Fortunate as she was to still have her husbandâsound in body and limbâby her side, he receded from her anyway. Aliceâs expression is one of cognition and understanding, and a recapitulating smile unfolds on her face as her friend shifts her attention back to the spread. It was comforting to see her indulge in it alongside her; it made her feel less condoled, less like alms-giving, less like Charityâs presence here was a keenly-felt necessity rather than an individual gladness.
   âDessert firstâwhat has the world come to?â she says all caricatured and incredulous, with the fettle of a girl who did not yet know war. Alice has not spoken with anyone like this in some timeâwith the exception of Amos, who knew better than most how to coax out the spirit of that misplaced girl from her lungsâwith such jauntiness and life. But for Charity, as it was for Amos, it was easy. It is why she does not mind so much when she wrenches the discussion back on itself; back into the vigil, the broadcast, the way the gaps between her fingers felt all lost and alien as Frankâs own slipped away from them. She bows her head, almost, as she fixates her attention on her own shuffling feet, before casting it back to Charity. Aliceâs eyes are soft and she smiles consolingly, reaching her hand out and placing it gently on her friendâs. Her fingers linger over Charityâs own and they provide, she hopes, some solace in all this.Â
   âI wish you wouldnât say that,â she says tenderly, though without much conviction as how to proceed. Unpremeditatedly, she feels a flash of guilt wash over her. Of course. Of course she wasnât the only one to have lost something to the static that night. Frank had moved quick as light from her side and he was yet to return to her; perhaps he wouldnât. âPeople needed to say goodbye. You gave them that.â The broadcast wasnât you. What happenedâit wasnât you. Alice tilts her head to the side, smiling with her eyes and adds: âBut I missed you too.â
War is hell. It is a phrase that has echoed through history. No matter how young or how urgent or how full of righteous fury they were when they entered into this one they should have known. There was always a chance they would lose and that even if they won it still didnât mean that they would be spared any personal pain. Somehow, despite or perhaps even because of the fact that she was reeling from her own earth-shattering loss, Charity had never truly anticipated the weight of it all. It was not that she was a fool in truth. She had known that war was full of horrors. There were those in her village who spoke in hushed tones of their lost ones and shrank away from reminders of the last Great War even decades after its end. She had expected the threat of death to hang over them. She had already lost the most important person to her and had known there was always a chance she would lose others as well before the end of it all. But she had not realized how much more there was to it than all that. She had not expected it to change her the way it was in this slow insidious way that left her feeling weary no matter how hard she tried to ward herself with rest and tea. She had not expected the guilt or hopelessness to grow stronger than the fire of her belief in the goodness that existed in the world.Â
There was a howling emptiness growing inside her that she could not fill with baked goods and soft hopes no matter how skillfully she crafted them. It gnawed at her day and night but there were times when it fell almost quiet- generally in the presence of celestial bodies that reminded her for a moment that there was something good still burning bright in all this endless dark. It was there when she sat alongside Remus staring up at the stars dotting the night sky. It was here in this kitchen flickering in Aliceâs eyes despite the clouds of concern and grief that pass over them. It was there when she watched Amos walk through her door after a long absence. She canât imagine losing it without losing everything else entirely. Some days it feels as though it is all she has left worth fighting for.Â
It is especially bright when Alice smiles and playacts along with her and for a moment Charity feels light again. But she can not keep the dark clouds from creeping in and is careless enough to let them slip out through her lips. The change in Alice is palpable. Her head bows under the weight of memory. The glimpse of the bright young woman sheâd blossomed into fades like a flower crushed and dried between the pages of life. Charity wilts along with her wishing urgently she could snatch back her admission and return to that moment of sugary happiness that bloomed so briefly. The feeling of Aliceâs hand on hers is a balm for her sadness but the pulse of her guilt remains until Aliceâs eyes light up again.Â
Charity nods tears of gratitude for Aliceâs careful understanding threatening to prick at her eyes. She shifts her hand to tangle her fingers with Aliceâs lightly squeezing to return the touch and silently express her thanks. People needed to say goodbye. She had tried to give them that. Had hoped to give them something more- a renewed sense of unity. But the broadcast, which still reigned chaotically in her mind casting light and shadows both with each twist and turn, had only seemed to deepen the fractures that were forming among them. It takes her a minute to trust her tongue again and untangle her fingers reluctantly from Aliceâs but by the time she does her own smile has returned.Â
âShall I make us some eggs?âÂ










