Letters From Home

Julia rumpled her brow, then extended a curious smile. “You two have a good night.” Once out of Morgan’s eyeshot, she gave Liz a look that said she expected a full explanation in the morning.

Liz urged her legs to follow—after all, what was she doing?— but then a series of notes overpowered the thought. A slow version of “Stormy Weather.” A melody of her past, towed through every dramatic measure.

“This tune”—Morgan gestured toward the band—“reminds me of my mom. Sang it around the house all the time.”

“Really?” Liz remarked at the coincidence. She tried to think of how many times she’d heard the original playing behind her mother’s locked bedroom door. Must have been a thousand. Liz had every reason to hate the song, yet somehow it persisted as one of her favorites. “Mine liked it too,” was all she added.

Eyes toward the singer, Morgan shook his head. A tender smile played on his lips. “Funny. She always made it sound so upbeat, I never noticed how sad the words are till now.”

Liz listened to the lyrics, about gloom and misery, and realized she hadn’t either. She verged on volunteering as much, but the glow in his expression stole her focus. Before she knew it, her gaze sloped down his arms, leaving her to imagine how they would feel wrapped around her.

When the tune ended, she jerked her eyes away, hoping he couldn’t actually read her mind. Then another ballad began, “At Last,” based on the opening bars. A horn sang soft and sultry and filled the silence between them. A silence that suddenly gaped for miles as he fidgeted in his chair. Staring in the other direction, he tapped his heel at quickstep tempo, as though antsy to reach the exit. She wanted to say something, yet nothing came to her. Their wordlessness dragged every second into a torturous crawl. Unsure of what to do, she peeked at her watch to verify time hadn’t stopped.

“So, Liz,” he said finally, “would you mind if I, um, asked you to dance?”

She was so relieved he had spoken it took her a moment to weigh his invitation.

It was a slow number.

She should decline.

Then again, he was leaving tomorrow.

“Sure—I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind.”

They rose and walked to the edge of the dance floor. As she slipped her hand into his, unfamiliar nerves rippled up her sides. His other hand cupped the small of her back and drew her close. She fought the trickle of a chill on her neck, willed moisture into her mouth gone dry.

This was a mistake, she warned herself. Still, she rested a palm on his broad shoulder, the starched fabric separating her from the skin beneath. At the shift of his muscles, the feel of his gaze, her heart pounded twice as fast as the beat. She didn’t take in a single lyric, yet everything about the song was perfect. It seemed the spiraling combination of notes was commanding her emotions to lead; her body to follow.

She turned her head and closed her eyes. Vanilla, lemon, and cedar—the scent of his talc or aftershave was soft but masculine. The slight rasp of his chin brushed against her temple; a rush of warm breath passed by her cheek. She tightened her grip on his shoulder as subtly as she could. Cracking her eyelids, she noted goose bumps prickling her arms. She desperately hoped he didn’t notice the effect he had on her. Unless he felt the same.

What was she thinking? They’d only just met. Sensible. She needed to be sensible.

Then his hand adjusted on her back. His fingers moved up slightly, pulling her closer. Never before had she been so aware of being touched. The air enveloping them thickened, a dense cloud, smothering sensibility.

She relaxed her neck, her shoulders, her rules. Unable, unwilling to stop herself, she angled toward his gaze. Her mind reached for his lips, and—

“Watch it!” a stranger’s voice shrilled.

Liz startled back to the room, and to the sailor falling straight into them. Morgan tried to slant her out of the way, but wasn’t fast enough to dodge the man’s red drink. It splattered an S down the side of her dress.

“Hey, I’m soor-ry,” the stocky guy slurred. He floundered off, rubbing his hairless head.

“You okay?” Morgan touched her bare arm.

Chills again. She pulled the damp portion of her dress from her legs. “I just need to clean up in the powder room.”

“Take your time,” he told her, and smiled.

She turned to hurry away, not from anxiousness to leave, but rather to return.

With the fog Morgan found himself in, he almost wondered if fumes from his brother’s whiskey were to blame. Liz had disappeared into the crowd, yet here he was, grinning like a possum. He couldn’t stop. He’d never met anyone so captivating. From her amber eyes that glowed and dimmed with her mood to the fragrance of a lavender field on her soft skin. More attractive still was the blend of her gentleness and outward strength.

But there was something else. A feeling of understanding, a comfort that defied reason. It was as though kissing her, a near stranger, would have made all the sense in the world.

He’d certainly had the impulse. Maybe he should have acted on it. Most guys at the dance would have done so without a second thought. At this very moment, his brother was likely coercing a smooch out of some girl in the room, a last favor before heading off to war.

The war.

How could he have forgotten?

Tomorrow they’d be at Union Station, one step closer to deploying to some country thousands of miles from home—and a world away from Liz.

Would a girl like that be willing to wait for a soldier she’d only known a single night? Or was he screwy to even consider the idea?

He drained a sigh heavy with doubt.

“Don’t tell me you lost that dame already.” Charlie’s voice turned Morgan around.

“She’s in the ladies’ room.” Promptly diverting, he said, “So what happened with the redhead? Not as irresistible as you thought you were, huh?”

“She was engaged. Doesn’t count. Besides, Jack says there’s a juice joint nearby, lots of gals there dying to show their patriotism.”

“Hope they don’t charge much.”

“Hey, I didn’t crack open my piggy bank for nothin’.” Charlie beamed. “I’m guessing you’re not going anywhere?”

“Think I’ll stick around awhile.” The answer formed so effortlessly Morgan almost missed the pricking of his conscience. When the town sheriff caught little Charlie drilling peepholes at Mrs. Herman’s Lingerie Boutique, their father had made it abundantly clear Morgan was responsible for keeping tabs on his brother. A passage of years hadn’t relinquished the duty; if anything, need for the role had risen.

But tonight, with the promise of Liz’s return, how could Morgan leave?

“Now, if the skirt comes to her senses,” Charlie said, “and decides to hide in the john all night, be sure to come looking for us.”

“Yeah, all right. Stay out of trouble, though, you hear?”

“Absolutely.” Charlie grinned and snaked off toward his buddies by the door.

“I mean it, Charlie!”

The kid raised his hand as if to affirm he was going to heed the order. Morgan knew better, of course. And he certainly knew better than to turn his brother loose with a flask of booze and their buddy Jack Callan on their last night in the city.

The thought ignited a flicker of regret, doused the instant Morgan’s nose caught a residual whiff of Liz’s perfume. Proof of her existence on his shirt. A reminder that he really had no choice.

Preparing for her reappearance, he spiffed up his necktie, then swiped his hands over his hair, due for another buzz cut. In the midst of sliding his watch down over his wrist bone, he halted at the color of red: a cluster of punch spots, spiked punch at that, tainting the cuff of his sleeve. “Ah, damn.”

Liz had only been gone a minute or two. He still had time before she finished cleaning up. Although finding a miraculous stain remover was a long shot, he had to try. The last thing he needed was a commander’s reprimand, followed by hours of scrubbing latrines. And more important, looking like a slob wasn’t how he hoped to come across to the woman he wanted to impress.

At the snack table, a matronly volunteer extended her sympathy and set off to retrieve a bottle of seltzer. While he waited, a couple nearby Lindy Hopping caught his eye. The Marine tossed the girl around his back, then flipped her like a hotcake. His feet swiveled and scooted and shuffled. He may not have been the smoothest swinger in the room, but the fellow could pass as Gene Kelly next to Morgan’s own less-than-snappy footwork.

Inwardly, Morgan kicked himself. He should have taken notes instead of heckling his brother when their mother used to lead Charlie in the box step around the kitchen. Then he wouldn’t have wasted two songs mustering the courage to ask Liz to dance. Too bad he wasn’t as skilled with a dance partner as he was with a plow.

“Hey, toots! How about a twirl?” The husky voice boomed from a few yards behind. No surprise, it was the same chief petty officer who had separated him from Liz, only now he was falling all over someone deliberately: the curvy blond singer appearing from a door by the stage. She swatted at the guy’s hands, but his groping continued until she gave him a shove. Turning to break away, she lost her footing and stumbled forward. Morgan’s arms swung outward, barely catching her.

“Gimme a chance, doll face!” The Navy man staggered closer.

She gazed at Morgan with big blue eyes. “Save me,” she pleaded in a whisper.

His first instinct called for a harsh warning toward her inebriated fan, and, if that didn’t work, an invitation to step outside. However, based on stories he’d heard while at basic, Morgan knew better than to tangle with a superior of any branch. He’d have to get creative.

“Excuse me, Chief.” He positioned his body to guard the singer. “But I promised my fiancée, here, a dance.”

The man pulled his chin back over his neck. He scrunched his face like a bulldog being challenged. “Fiancée, huh?”

Morgan straightened, inched a step forward. “Yes, sir. High school sweethearts.”

The Navy man scrutinized the couple with his bloodshot eyes. His pulse visibly throbbed on the side of his head, bald as a billiard ball. Suddenly, he flared a grin and stuck out a swaying hand. “Well, congrad-julations!”

Relieved, Morgan accepted the guy’s ironclad grip while leaning away from the smell of sweat and bourbon seeping from his pores.

“Let’s go, honey bear.” The blonde latched onto Morgan’s arm. “They’re playing our song.” She pulled him free and towed him to the dance floor. The horn section, rocking in unison, blasted lively notes toward the high ceiling.

With no sight of Liz yet, he took the singer’s hands. He did his best to spare her toes through the basic steps of a jitterbug. Thankfully, the tune ended within a few bars and the petty officer, though still in view, had about-faced. Seizing the opportunity to exit, Morgan released the woman’s hands.

“Can’t leave me yet, Private.” She drew him back for the crooner’s ballad. “We didn’t finish our wedding dance.” Her arms wrapped around his neck, guiding him into a close sway.

He swallowed a gulp of air. Obviously, city girls were bolder than the small-town gals he’d grown up with.

“Miss, I’d love to keep dancin’, but—”

She peered at him with a seductive glint. “Oh, come now. I have to thank you for your help somehow. And you did promise me a dance.” A smile slid across her lips before she rested her chin on his shoulder. Just then, the petty officer shifted his stance to face them. Upon catching Morgan’s eye, the guy tapped an arm of the sailor standing beside him. “Hey!” they yelled raggedly, and raised their cups in a distant toast.

Morgan lifted his chin in acknowledgment. For the singer’s sake, he’d wait for the song to end before leaving the floor discreetly—unless, that is, he glimpsed Liz’s chestnut hair, her heavenly face.

“I’m Betty, by the way,” the blonde said.

“I’m Morgan . . . McClain,” he said in pieces. His gaze hopped back and forth between the drunken bookends and the far corner of the dance floor, the exact spot where Liz had woven into the crowd and would presumably emerge.

“Well, thank you for rescuing me, Morgan.” Betty’s fingertips grazed the small scar on the side of his neck, a permanent reminder of the day he’d saved Charlie from a fatal dive down a grain chute. Man, he wished his brother were here to repay the favor by cutting in.

Charlie would think he was nuts, of course. Betty had to be the most sought-after girl in the place. Regardless, there was only one woman Morgan wanted to be with.

Alone in the ladies’ room, Liz felt a new chapter in her life unfolding. She was a six-year-old waking to her first snowfall, a kid in a general store given free rein over the candy barrels.

Calming herself, she set aside the hand towel she’d used to blot her dress. Looking in the mirror, she tucked in her loose hair. The makeup she’d applied that morning had almost completely faded. She pinched her cheeks and licked her lips. She felt like a starlet standing by for a knock on her dressing room door.

Five minutes, Miss Stephens, before we shoot the kissing scene with the soldier.

Suddenly Liz could see the world as Julia did, through a soft cinema lens where boy met girl and all lived happily ever after. Where obstacles fell away like mist, temporary and translucent. Where you were held accountable only for actions wedged between the opening and closing credits.

She could have that, couldn’t she? A clean slate, a happily ever after?

Don’t be silly, the skeptic in her sneered. Such a reality only existed in the movies. Her parents had taught her that. And what was she going to do? Jeopardize her relationship with Dalton for a GI she barely knew, one who’d soon be on his way?

Thank heavens for the sailor’s interference. She could have ruined far more than her favorite summer garb had he not reawakened her sanity.

Embarrassed by her behavior, and even more by her ridiculous thoughts, she jetted from the lavatory and off to the exit. The doors were in sight when a twinge of guilt slowed her steps.

The least she could do was wish the soldier well, freeing him to mingle with other girls—available girls—who’d be worth his efforts.

She grumbled at the call to decency, an ironic notion at this point, and trudged back to their table. Yet there, she found strangers in their seats. She rotated slowly, her gaze circling the room. Another turn, and still no sign of Morgan.

Perhaps he had sensed she wouldn’t be coming back. Some buddies could have whisked him away, moved on to another dance hall, a late-night diner.

Perfect, she told herself. An easy way out.

She ordered relief to take hold, though the feeling refused— until she glimpsed his profile. He had waited for her, after all.

Or so she thought, before a curtain of strangers divided, and the full scene came into view. Across the dance floor indeed stood Morgan, but with a girl in his arms. And not just any girl. It was Betty—eyes closed, cheek nestled against his neck, the slope of her hair pillowing his chin. Both certainly looked at ease, a natural pair.

This was a good thing. The best, actually, for them all.

So why did Liz feel a cinching around her heart? Why was a streak of anger sweeping through her, a sensation bordering on betrayal? The reaction was absurd. Morgan owed her nothing, and even if Betty had seen them dancing, there was no reason for her to question Liz’s intentions, what with her already having a beau. Not that anyone here would have guessed.

“Elizabeth Stephens, is that you?”

She swung toward the voice. A tall man approached wearing Coke-bottle glasses, his suit a size too small for his gangly stature.

“Is Dalt here?” His lenses magnified the enthusiasm in his eyes. His name escaped her, but he was unmistakably a schoolmate of Dalton’s.

“Um . . . no. He couldn’t make it.” Shame rushed through her, flooding every limb.

“Well, tell him I said hi.”

“Of course.” She smiled feebly. Whirling around, she bumped her way through the faceless mass. She needed to flee before any further harm was done, before her logical foundation could crumble beneath her feet.

She dashed out the doors and down the steps, not slowing until she’d boarded the “L” train destined for the seclusion of her suburban home. Stooped in her seat, she rested her head against the window. Summer clouds reclaimed territory above, draping a cluster of stars. No twinkling, no trace of existence.

If only mistakes were as easily erased.

At long last, the USO band played the final notes of the song. Until then, Morgan didn’t think anything could seem lengthier than the Sunday masses he attended as a kid. The audience thundered in applause and a slew of dancers dispersed, concealing his brisk parting from Betty. Concerned that Liz still hadn’t returned, he immediately strode off on a search.

For close to an hour, he scoured the place. He described the brunette’s features and what he recalled of her outfit to more than a dozen random people. He’d gone so far as to ask ladies exiting the washroom if she was still inside, in the event she wasn’t feeling well.

But his hunt was futile. It was clear she’d left.

Had he said or done something wrong? Or was it something he’d failed to say or do? He reviewed as many details as he could, and still no explanation.

Maybe it wasn’t him at all; maybe she was too upset over her dress to stay. Could have been an emergency that sent her rushing off. Whatever the reason, he hadn’t given up all hope. He wasn’t about to. There was too much to lose.

God, how could he find her again? He hadn’t even asked for her last name.

He scorned his thoughtlessness before taking another approach. Like a detective from a radio drama, he mulled over the clues. She mentioned studying, but where? And caring for the elderly. A hospital? A rest home? What about the redhead—which joint did she say she was hitting with her friends? He should have asked for specifics. Then again, if Liz had decided to follow them, she would have said so.

Wouldn’t she?

A swell of doubt washed over him. All these questions with no answers. What a chump he was, pining after a gal he didn’t know the first thing about. The assumption that her attraction equaled his now seemed laughable. Stupidity settled in his gut, heavy as a ton of coal. He blew out a breath.

Enough already. Time to focus on things that mattered: his brother, the war, his patriotic duty. A few days and he wouldn’t even remember what she looked like. That’s what he told himself. But then the feel of holding Liz swept over his arms, and already he knew she would haunt his memory long after she’d vanished.

Chapter 2

July 5, 1944 Chicago, Illinois

Two knocks, yet no one answered. No sign of life through the door’s smoky glass pane.

In the vacant corridor outside the instructor’s office, Julia scraped at the side seam of her overcoat, desperate to get this over with. She must have arrived too early; Madame Simone was nothing if not punctual.

With no clocks permitted in the small fashion academy, usually a rule Julia favored, she moved to the hall window for a narrow view of the world outside. Her eyes strained through the sun’s morning glare to reach the bank at the corner. The clock pinned to its brick forehead indicated 10:06. More than twenty minutes until their meeting. Twenty-four long minutes, to be exact.

“Splendid,” she muttered.

Had nerves not rushed her, she could have relaxed at home longer, interrogated Liz more thoroughly. Sifting her friend’s recount of the previous evening might have actually produced a juicy morsel. Perhaps, true to her claim, Liz had stayed at the USO merely to watch one last performance. But Julia would have at least enjoyed the chance to dig a little deeper, playing the role of a savvy investigator, before the clues turned cold.

Oh, why did minutes pass swiftly only when you wanted them to last?

A coffee. And an apricot fritter. Good time killers, she decided, recalling the bakery around the corner. Should her teacher be inquiring about Julia’s delay in fall registration—why else would she have asked her here?—a place to hone a response would be helpful: Thank you again for all you’ve done, for everything you’ve taught me. But I’m sorry, I simply can’t.

Julia pushed away an onset of guilt and hastened toward the exit downstairs. She felt pleading stares from the sketches of faceless models on the walls as she passed. In their bold hats and curly-strapped shoes, woven waterfalls of shimmery gowns, they silently called her back.

She averted her eyes, focused on her goal, just as a lineup of fragrances snuck into her senses: hemmed cotton, trimmed wool, raw imagination. They emanated from a slightly open doorway and blended in the valley of her lungs. As though on tracks, she found herself guided toward the scents, into her old classroom. Enticing and intoxicating as champagne.

A few more steps and apprehension dropped away. Light through a cluster of windows pronounced vibrancy in the bolts of fabric, poised at attention within the worn shelves. She trailed her hand over the spectrum of textures. As always, the French caretaker kept the materials organized by hues. They flowed like a rainbow, their divisions softened by the gradual transitions: from Persian blue to cornflower to cerulean to teal.

In this very space, like nowhere else, Julia had luxuriated in her impulses against the grain. For within these four boundless walls, the art of a woman’s freethinking was demanded, rather than discouraged.

And still, she had spent the past two months telling herself that her parents were right, that funds from clerking part-time at the nursing home should be spent on holiday gifts, not a hobby taking bites out of her regular studies. The commute itself, to the downtown academy, had contributed greatly to the slip in her respectable grades. Only a slight slip, but enough to raise concern from parents whose eldest daughter, Claire, had yet to stray from a trail spun of tradition, trimmed with approval.

Sometimes Julia wished her sister weren’t so dang likable. Had the girl been wretchedly competitive, or haughty in her seniority, like a typical sibling, Julia might have scuffed at Claire’s exemplary footsteps. Instead, so flawlessly formed, they gave her little cause not to smile, curtsy, and follow.

With a sigh, Julia pulled her fingertips from the propped fabric. She hadn’t expected a return to this familiar playground to cause such a tug on her heart. The thorny pulse of missing an old friend.

Loosening her grip on her handbag, she gazed at the pair of dress forms in the corner. Dashes of chalk acted as blueprints for the developing ensembles. She was trying to recall how many times she had used those very mannequins when a sight trapped her: Eggshell trim dangled awkwardly from the breast pocket of the maroon suit jacket. She scanned the tiled floor for the delinquent straight pin. Its metallic point sparkled, a beacon to her slender fingers.

Another’s design was considered a personal expression. Soulful. Sacred. But surely a student would appreciate the unobtrusive remedy.

Julia quickly retrieved the pin and tacked the trim back onto the pocket. As she confirmed its levelness, however, she had a vision of the extreme opposite: the entire pocket at a slant. To test the idea, just for a second, she angled and secured the accessory. The hem of the skirt needed to be raised as a complement. She shimmied the fabric upward around the wire cage below the limbless torso. Then she stepped back, evaluating.

What a statement the garb would make with a sharp, lightning-bolt collar rather than a conservative rounded appeasement. And if the belt were an inch wider with, say, a square copper buckle—

A sound from the doorway whirled Julia around. Her teacher entered, a small box in her arms. Mismatched pattern pieces hung over its edges like a deflated circus tent. Julia’s anxiety, instantly revived, sprang to attention.

“Ah! I see already you are here, Zhoolia.” The same tough elegance permeating Simone’s French accent encompassed her trademark appearance: dark hair slicked into an impossibly tight bun, no bangs to soften her angled features, slender arms pale against her all-black attire. Only wrinkles huddling around her eyes confessed her age exceeding fifty. And aside from her raspberry lipstick, the jeweled chain on the half-glass spectacles dangling from her neck provided her sole splash of color. “Have you been here long?” she asked.

Julia grappled for her thoughts. “I—arrived a little earlier than I planned.” Even more consuming than the rudeness of her untimely arrival was her tampering with the suit behind her. She could think of no discreet way of returning the outfit to its original state. Inching to her right, she settled for barricading the view. “Did you end up visiting New York last month, to see your niece?” She flung the question across the room, a verbal sleight of hand.

“Mmm,” Simone affirmed, moving toward a worktable beneath the windows, her posture and movement like a swan’s. “Have you ever been?” She set down the box.

“Oh yes,” Julia replied. “About once a year since I was little. My mom liked to take my sister and me there to holiday shop, see Broadway shows, and such.”

“And you are fond of it? That big city?”

A memory floated toward Julia: the first time she rode an open carriage through Central Park, the glow of lanterns painting the drifting snowflakes gold before her eyes. She swore heaven couldn’t be any more beautiful. “I think it’s the most magical place on earth.”

The teacher nodded, then nodded again. “Good.” The right answer. Simone disdained wrong answers. And, as Julia had learned, a student never had to question into which category their response had fallen.

“May I help you with that?” Julia hurried toward her, pulling the woman’s eye line to a safe periphery.

“Scraps,” the teacher complained, her fist full of thin strips from the box. “Silk pieces, they promised. But no. Only scraps.” She dropped them into a rejected heap on the long rectangular table, a fixture Julia knew well. On occasion, she had literally lived on the nicked and scarred slab—eating, sleeping, dreaming among the spools and yardsticks when a gust of creativity caught hold.

“Well,” Julia offered, touching the coveted material, “hopefully the war will be over soon, and everything will go back to normal.”

“Mmm . . . normal.” The word entered the air, soft as a wish. A brief pause and Simone’s wistfulness disappeared, shut down on command. “Alors.” She straightened. “You are wondering why I called you here, non?”

Fresh tension snapped through Julia as she waited.

“Let me first say,” she began, “the opportunity, at your level of experience, is an exception. However, I would prefer not to see a talent like yours wasted. Not to mention the effort and time I have contributed to your education.”

This was even worse than Julia expected. The woman was obviously inviting her into the advanced design program. A wondrous offer for a one-year student, almost unheard of.

Regardless. Julia’s answer would be the same: Thank you for everything—but—but . . . The words resisted, dug in their heels, as Simone said, “You see, you’ve been offered an internship.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Julia’s decline toppled out before the last statement soaked in. “What was that?”

Simone’s expression held at stoic. “An internship, chérie. At Vogue. Naturally, they’ll want to interview you first, but I assured them you’d be perfect.”

“I had no—that you—” All of the thoughts in Julia’s head crashed into each other, landing in a pile of confusion. A single word crawled from the wreckage: “How?”

Simone shrugged one shoulder, as if both took too much effort. “During my trip to New York. I brought a file of your sketches, and two of the gowns you designed for the fashion show.”

Though the showcase last spring was only class-wide, the rave reviews Julia had received sent her spirit gliding cloud-high for an entire week.

Simone went on, “A dear friend I studied with decades ago is now working in designs for Vogue. And she believes you have something special. A gift. As do I.” That last sentence, above all others, lit Julia inside. Compliments from the woman were like collectible coins. Rare and priceless. “But,” she pointed out, “you will have a lot to learn before then.”

“When would it start?”

“They had hoped for this winter, but I told them of your studies. She would be willing to wait until late spring for you. And you would be expected to prove, at all times, why you were worth the wait.” She paused a beat for emphasis. “The pay would be minimal, and you would be responsible for all your expenses. Although there would be other interns you could share a flat with, if you prefer.”

Julia’s mind was spinning. “And this is . . . for how long?”

“That is up to them,” she replied. “Or you. At the end of the summer, you could decide to return to school, or remain. The choice would be yours.”

Julia breathed against the enclosure of her excitement. She felt herself drifting once more toward the clouds. Grounding herself as best she could, she shook her head and said, “I don’t know what to say, how to thank you.”

Simone’s reply came strong. “Don’t prove me wrong.” The teacher’s reputation had obviously served as an ante in the gambling match. The shared pressure didn’t go unnoticed. “Of course,” she added, “you will need to do some preparation work, around your studies at the university.”