The Lost Castle by Kristy Cambron

Author:Kristy Cambron
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2018-01-10T00:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

MAY 12, 1941

KNIGHTSBRIDGE SW1

LONDON, ENGLAND

“They told me I could find you here.”

Vi stepped over a pile of broken bricks, leveling her footing on a length of busted sidewalk.

She’d sought Andrew out, knowing her brother would be at the Alexandra Hotel as soon as the bombing reports came in. He stood on the sidewalk, hands buried deep in his trouser pockets, numb from staring at the bombed-out shell of his hotel.

The pungent odor of broken sewer lines and coal gas hung on the air. As did smoke. The heavy, bomb-blasted smell she could now recognize as cordite. The hotel walls jutted out in the hub of it, an eerie brick skeleton where the foyer had once greeted guests with convenience and grandeur. It was flattened, along with the spiral staircase and the central lift area, the floor having collapsed down on the basement some time ago. Rescue workers were busy cutting through the upper floors to free as many trapped as they could.

“Look at it.” Andrew shook his head, glancing around as bricks were picked through. Piled. Walls teetering against gravity. Smoke rising. As men toiled and— Vi shuddered, seeing a blanket-covered stretcher being loaded in a hospital wagon. “I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Oh, Andrew. How can this have happened?”

“They told me to wait here. To keep people calm as they come out. But I look around, ready to beg for something to do. Anything, so I don’t have to stand here like a clod while our guests are carried out under sheets.”

Appearing so much her older brother, Andrew turned to her, showing how life had taken the four years he had on her and run them over in lines upon his brow. The Cambridge chap she’d always known to sport a smile was washed over in seriousness then, his pinstripe oxford, white suspenders, and suit trousers blackened with soot, his face marred with that plus exhaustion. The casual laugh lines she’d always loved about him were gone—faded into worry around his eyes.

He’d gone to war. Already seen soldiers die before him. A bullet had taken its time, searing the mechanics of his arm with irreparable nerve damage, the slight shaking and loss of feeling that meant he could never again be a man in uniform. So he’d come back to London. Back to more death at home.

“You really shouldn’t be here, Vi. It’s not safe.”

“I had to see if you were alright.”

He tipped his shoulders in a defeated shrug. “I’m the hotel manager who lived. How can I be anything else but alright?”

Vi hated to see the weight of guilt come down so heavily. She went to him, braced her hands on his shoulders in a supportive half hug from behind. “It’s not your fault. None of this. How could anyone know where the bombs would land? Dreadful reports are coming in from all over the city. Even Westminster Abbey has been hit. I heard that on the bus to come here. The Abbey walls still stand, but plaster and debris crashed through the roof.

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