distance, in this ethereal light.
She was still shivering, despite the robe. And utterly wakeful, so she might as well dress. Might as well turn on a light to do that, though not until she had seen the last of the men vanish through the door, not until she had heard it slam. There was a comfort in that too, a guarantee of solid actual men, who needed doors to open and caused them to close again.
Never mind that that same door had defeated her. She needed to learn the way of it, that was all. In the dark, that especially. And find where the light switch was, that too.
Before she reached for her own light switch, there was still one thing to do. Virtue transplanted, a city habit that might actually be unnecessary here: she adjusted the blackout curtain, so that not a glimmer could be seen from outside. From above or below.
Dressed, she had no notion what she ought to do now. Not linger without purpose in her room, emphatically not that. She might go looking for a staffroom, perhaps. Or a library, anything that would offer a distraction. Or there must be a kitchen in this wing somewhere, she might hope for a gas ring and a kettle, there was nothing so distracting as a cup of tea  . . .
And if all of that was only making excuses to herself, at least she didnât have to admit it, even to herself. She held it ready in her mind, ready on her tongue in case of meeting anyone, and slipped out of the room. Left the light on and the door ajar, so that she could find her way back; took Judithâs torch, so that she could find her way through the rest of the house. Or at least see where she was going, which wasnât quite the same thing.
Stole downstairs as quietly as she might, wishing for carpets on these bare treads or else for lighter shoes. Down one flight and another, using the torch in flashes and no more, mostly trusting for guidance to her hand on the wall and the sounds that drew her. Menâs voices, footsteps, the creaks and scrapes of furniture in use. The chink of crockery, the tap of silver against china. Sugar in your tea, Major Black?
Here was the hallway, and she didnât need the torch; the light was on. The voices lay on the further side of that tall door that led through to the ballroom, Major Blackâs domain. She had always known that, there had never been any question of it in her head. In daylight she had met the other face of Morwood; in darkness, of course it would be his. Even his name was an omen.
Even so, she was determined. She walked up to the door, and as her hand reached to the handle it swung open, and here came Flying Officer Tolchard, awkward with his one good hand working the door and an empty milk-jug cradled in the other elbow. Doubly awkward as his eyes met hers, as he made a sudden hushing gesture, donât give yourself away.
She had done nothing wrong, she was clad decently in dressing gown and virtue. And yet she stood entirely still, saying nothing, letting him close that difficult door behind him, allowing him to shut her out. Again.
Himself, he was clad in black, as all those men below had been. It was some kind of exercise, and havenât you done enough? but the question was impossible so long as he was young and breathing, so long as the war went on. What in the world he would do afterwards, she couldnât imagine. She imagined that he gave it no thought at all. The war it was that kept him going, him and his brothers in arms.
He pulled a knit cap from his hair, which might mean anything or nothing but she chose to read it as an atavistic gesture, a charming little schoolboy moment, taking his cap off to a lady. The sideways duck of his head was incontrovertible: a message, an invitation, an instruction. Come with me. Quietly, now. She allowed that too after only a momentâs hesitation, only just long enough to pluck the jug from his elbow and carry it herself.
Across the hall and down another flight of stairs, she hadnât been this way
She was still shivering, despite the robe. And utterly wakeful, so she might as well dress. Might as well turn on a light to do that, though not until she had seen the last of the men vanish through the door, not until she had heard it slam. There was a comfort in that too, a guarantee of solid actual men, who needed doors to open and caused them to close again.
Never mind that that same door had defeated her. She needed to learn the way of it, that was all. In the dark, that especially. And find where the light switch was, that too.
Before she reached for her own light switch, there was still one thing to do. Virtue transplanted, a city habit that might actually be unnecessary here: she adjusted the blackout curtain, so that not a glimmer could be seen from outside. From above or below.
Dressed, she had no notion what she ought to do now. Not linger without purpose in her room, emphatically not that. She might go looking for a staffroom, perhaps. Or a library, anything that would offer a distraction. Or there must be a kitchen in this wing somewhere, she might hope for a gas ring and a kettle, there was nothing so distracting as a cup of tea  . . .
And if all of that was only making excuses to herself, at least she didnât have to admit it, even to herself. She held it ready in her mind, ready on her tongue in case of meeting anyone, and slipped out of the room. Left the light on and the door ajar, so that she could find her way back; took Judithâs torch, so that she could find her way through the rest of the house. Or at least see where she was going, which wasnât quite the same thing.
Stole downstairs as quietly as she might, wishing for carpets on these bare treads or else for lighter shoes. Down one flight and another, using the torch in flashes and no more, mostly trusting for guidance to her hand on the wall and the sounds that drew her. Menâs voices, footsteps, the creaks and scrapes of furniture in use. The chink of crockery, the tap of silver against china. Sugar in your tea, Major Black?
Here was the hallway, and she didnât need the torch; the light was on. The voices lay on the further side of that tall door that led through to the ballroom, Major Blackâs domain. She had always known that, there had never been any question of it in her head. In daylight she had met the other face of Morwood; in darkness, of course it would be his. Even his name was an omen.
Even so, she was determined. She walked up to the door, and as her hand reached to the handle it swung open, and here came Flying Officer Tolchard, awkward with his one good hand working the door and an empty milk-jug cradled in the other elbow. Doubly awkward as his eyes met hers, as he made a sudden hushing gesture, donât give yourself away.
She had done nothing wrong, she was clad decently in dressing gown and virtue. And yet she stood entirely still, saying nothing, letting him close that difficult door behind him, allowing him to shut her out. Again.
Himself, he was clad in black, as all those men below had been. It was some kind of exercise, and havenât you done enough? but the question was impossible so long as he was young and breathing, so long as the war went on. What in the world he would do afterwards, she couldnât imagine. She imagined that he gave it no thought at all. The war it was that kept him going, him and his brothers in arms.
He pulled a knit cap from his hair, which might mean anything or nothing but she chose to read it as an atavistic gesture, a charming little schoolboy moment, taking his cap off to a lady. The sideways duck of his head was incontrovertible: a message, an invitation, an instruction. Come with me. Quietly, now. She allowed that too after only a momentâs hesitation, only just long enough to pluck the jug from his elbow and carry it herself.
Across the hall and down another flight of stairs, she hadnât been this way
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