That’s the amazing thing, that you could half forget a war. But you could. Especially when that war is fought far away across the ocean, when your brother’s eyesight is too terrible for him to go and your mother is so grateful that she bakes a cake herself instead of telling the cook to do it, when there’s a black-haired boy with a sparkling hollow at his throat standing at your door and you can’t speak for the wave of want that swamps you and threatens to drag you under.
