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The neighborhood around Anton’s house had grown in a flurry of new, fresh buildings with clean walls and sparkling windows. Yes, after the war, everything seemed to be flourishing. No longer was this the dusty, overgrown neighborhood she’d recalled in memory. Twisting along the road in the trolley with her mother, suitcases bumping her legs as a wall of yellow flowers filled her vision. When she and her mother visited London often. Just before the war, before her mother and her aunt had fallen out.
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Before Celia’s outbursts had begun. No. Celia decided to stop thinking about her mother. No more. She was far away now. Back then, Anton had been ten with scraped knees and a periodically bloody nose. She’d show up at his bedroom door at the top of the stairs on the fourth floor. She’d never say hello, only “Want to play in the sunroom?”
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“I thought you wouldn’t ever ask,” he would respond.
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Now they were both two feet taller and Celia was seventeen, Anton could barely match her stride despite being three years older than her. There was a blinding warmth in the air, a breeze drying the sweat on her forehead. The air smelled of overturned soil, grass, and a fresh hint of flowers. Motorcars whirred past. They didn’t play games in the sunroom anymore.
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The two of them were walking back to Anton’s house after touring yet another university that didn’t offer women an education and had been all grey and glum. She’d been posing as his sister all week; they looked similar enough. They’d hoped that after the war, with the 19th amendment in America allowing women to vote, and with all the forward movement that seemed to be trickling slowly across England, someone might be able to pull some strings. Celia needed something to do, something to lose herself in. She wanted to study again.
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But, no luck.
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“They felled the tree that we thought looked like a stooping man,” Anton told her, staring at the ground.
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“Oh.” Celia kicked a rock away from the sidewalk. “How sad.” She remembered the tree; they’d played underneath its shade as children, its branches hanging over them like shaggy arms. Once, Celia had fallen and chipped her tooth there. Anton had carried her home on his back, even though she could walk fine with a chipped tooth. Now there was a telephone pole there. Celia closed her eyes.
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“The neighborhood has changed so much,” Anton said. “It’s … quite sad.”
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“Things are simply growing.” Celia shrugged. “It’s for the best. There isn’t any use in being sentimental, Ant.” She kicked the rock once more. She knew the words were true but saying them felt like biting down the inside of her cheek, like a necessary pain. And she almost did, just for the tang of blood.
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The yellow flowers were nowhere to be seen as they turned the corner and gazed down the block toward Anton’s house. A mother strolled past, a parasol over one arm, the other hand clutching the hand of a small girl with ruddy cheeks. Something inside Celia twisted.
Anton was gazing at her. “You don’t have to be so melancholy,” he murmured.
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“You’re the one being melancholy. I’m telling the truth,” she snapped. She hadn’t meant to.
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Anton froze. She kept walking. He hurried to catch up with her. “The one who ran away from home is preaching to me about telling the truth? Really?”
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Celia whirled on him. He had his arms crossed, a crease between his eyebrows. “Would you be quiet?” Her heart raced. The street around them was quiet and empty, but, still, she feared someone might have overheard. “At least I actually have the stomach to do such a thing.”
She turned before he could retort. From the corner of her eye, she saw him, mouth open, looking appalled. He sucked in a breath, as if about to say something—but stopped himself. Instead, she focused on his house as they approached. It was the only corner of the neighborhood that hadn’t morphed, a shard of frozen time, the hands of a clock, unmoving. It was tall and wedged between two much newer-looking buildings, barely a breath of space on either side. The windows had velvet, half-drawn curtains, creating the appearance of drooping eyelids. It looked crooked, as though there was a surplus of narrow, teetering stairs within, which Celia knew there were. It stood, weary and proud, this aching comfort of bygone days when Celia hadn’t yet learned to fear the labyrinth of her mind.
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“There’s a letter in the postbox,” Celia said and stood on the garden path with her hands in the pockets of her coat, balancing on her toes as Anton dug for the letter. “So you spoke to Harry … yesterday.” She hoped the remark would clear the sudden tension between them.
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Anton smiled, the sparkle in his eyes returning, his face flushed. “Yes, and I think I’ll call him tonight.” He glanced down at the envelope, and his lips turned down. “Cricket, it’s for you.” Celia briefly grinned at the use of her old nickname. Then her stomach plummeted as she noticed the crisp, white paper and the looping, blue ink, losing herself in the sweep of the “O” and the scribble of the “I.” Olivia Clifton. She plucked her mother’s letter from Anton’s hands. “Aren’t you going to open it?” he asked, reaching for her shoulder.
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Before she could think, the words were out of her mouth. “You talk about Harry an awful lot. Don’t you think it’s strange?” He froze, a pained expression on his face. Guilt tasted like metal in her mouth. She knew she was hiding. But she wanted to remind him that he was hiding, too.
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She rushed past him toward the house, gasping for breath.
Inside, she flicked the switch beside the door, and the old glass lamp above her filled the entry hall with chartreuse light, battling against the sun through the stained-glass windows. She kicked her boots off and shoved the letter in her coat pocket. Then she froze. On the azure carpet sat five beetles. Green and shiny and big. Anton gasped behind her, the door creaking.
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Celia grabbed a black umbrella from the stand by the door. “Move,” She muttered, and Anton quickly scrambled out of the threshold and halfway into the parlor as Celia leapt across the carpet and began sweeping the beetles toward the door. As they were prodded, each one jerked and hopped, wings fluttering, as if trying to cling to the carpet with their fat legs. She reached over and opened the door, and with one final stroke, swept the insects out onto the front step. They made the same crunch that an apple between her teeth would as she stabbed each with the point of the umbrella.