“A mallet, through a wicket.” Her own grin was probably a bit mischievous. She and Ivy had played their guests more than once—and often tromped them soundly. “Weather permitting, we always have a little Easter match. We can teach you how to play—and no doubt Mama will regale you at dinner with the story of our game twelve years ago, when an overexuberant Ivy broke a window.”

She’d thought a hint of a story would bring another easy smile. After all, who didn’t laugh at the thought of a nine-year-old smacking a ball through a window? But instead of amusement, that stillness descended over his countenance again. A complete absence of reaction.

What had she said? She shifted just a bit closer, so that he would look down at her. “I’m sorry. Have I opened a matryoshka doll?”

The reference to their earlier conversation at least earned another fleeting smile. “Forgive me. Talk of Easter brought to mind an article I read in the newspaper this morning. It seems the Germans’ new gun hit a church in Paris yesterday, during Good Friday services. Many were killed. Many more wounded.”

She gasped. Her shift at Charing Cross Hospital had begun early this morning, and she hadn’t had a chance to so much as glance at the headlines yet. “That’s horrible!”

“It was a church I visited once, when my family took a European holiday. Our one grand adventure.” His voice was so perfectly even. Modulated. Careful. “We stayed in that neighborhood, you see. We toured the church. Visited a bookshop.” He swallowed hard. “That was the neighborhood where my brother and I were to meet if we were separated during our escape. He could be there, somewhere near that devastation.”

Her stomach knotted up. “Oh no. I can’t even imagine.” She glanced behind them, to where Ivy and Clarke trailed them by at least ten paces, laughing over something or another. She and her sister had never been apart, not really. Not by more than a few miles, a few days at a time. Never had either of them had to wonder if the other was caught in the midst of a tragedy. “Do you think it likely he was nearby?”

He didn’t shrug. Didn’t glance over at her. Just kept walking at the same measured pace, his movements fluid. Kept his eyes straight ahead. Kept his face clear. “If he is alive, he is there, or trying to get there. But I have heard nothing from him for weeks. Not since our train derailed.”

“I’m so sorry. Such uncertainty must be tormenting.” Her hand settled over her camera. Anchoring her, even though there was nothing she could do with it to make this better for him. “Are you the elder or the younger?”

“Elder.” Now he looked her way, a knowing in his eyes. “Like you, yes?”