In truth, she’d known it far longer than she’d let on. The instant Linus had labored off the rescue boat, the very first moment their eyes had met across the landing, Lydia Harris had known her husband was no longer her husband; that something within him, something deep, something binding, was now missing. “What do you expect?” Annabeth Owen whispered condemningly when Lydia had finally suggested it in the months following the men’s return. “God only knows what they endured out there. They might have died. Who can know that sort of terror? Pray we never do.” But his eyes, Lydia had wanted to say. They’re not the same blue. I know how that sounds, but they’re not. They’re haunted. His are the eyes of a haunted man. “It’s the baby, dear,” Mary Bartle answered. “I remember how it was. I wanted to cry at the drop of a hat. It’s a hard enough time carrying a child—and you’ve been through so much.” “They just need time,” Annabeth said, baby Joseph on her hip, little Elizabeth tugging on her skirt.
