Gracewood was right to mourn her. She had died two years ago on a battlefield in France. She was Viola Carroll. She had always been Viola Carroll. And some part of her had always known it. There was only one thing she hadn’t known. One truth that, locked in pursuit of her own, she hadn’t grasped. It was simply this: That love—that her love for Gracewood and his love for his friend—had not died with her.
