“Are there any good ones left?”

“More than you’d expect. There hasn’t exactly been a rush to return to the homeland since the war ended. Many of them decided they prefer it here, despite the weather and the food.”

“Oh—it’s the Trisagion hymn,” said Sparks. “Let’s listen. I’ve always liked that one.”

The choir sang, then the priest turned to the congregation, his arms out to entreat them.

“Dinamis!” he cried.

Once more with feeling, thought Sparks, but she dutifully sang along with the rest of the devout. The Thrice-Holy Hymn. Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal—have mercy on us.

Well. Too late for that, isn’t it? Better luck next time.

There was a buzz of excited whispers behind her, and she and Kat turned to see a man walking down the center aisle, a small coterie of people behind him. He had the look of someone who had been handsome when he was younger, but his face was wan, the portions below his cheekbones sunken and waxy, his lips compressed into a thin line. Yet he projected authority in the face of God and His servants, and most of the congregation nodded deferentially as he went by. Others continued to stare straight ahead, either markedly indifferent or outright defiant.

“Is that the king?” whispered Sparks.

“The twice-exiled George the Second in the declining flesh,” replied Kat. “Ridiculous to call him a king now. He’s not even king of Claridge’s. Nice of him to leave the mistress behind while coming to worship, though.”

“I like a church where the mistresses get to pray,” said Sparks.

“She needs Sunday morning to recover from Saturday night,” said Kat. “And the rest of the day to primp for tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?”

“There’s a reception in support of the monarchist referendum.”

“Would he really bring his mistress to that?”

“No, of course not,” said Kat. “But he’ll want to celebrate before and after. I’m being harsh—I hear they quite adore each other. They have for years, but he can’t marry her.”

“Why not?”

“She’s British. Joyce Brittain-Jones. Lives out in the suburbs, did her bit in an arms factory during the war after they fled the Nazis. On good terms with the inner circles both here and there, but she wouldn’t help the cause if she showed up with a ring and a license right now.”

“Poor thing.”

Sparks turned her attention briefly back to the service and realised with dismay that they had come to the Credo. The very center of her disbelief, about to be chanted in unison by everyone there.

Say the words, woman. They’re only words, not magic. Saying them won’t make you believe. They’ll make others believe that you believe. You’ve said far worse things that you didn’t believe in the service of King and country.

She said the words.

She glanced up at the dome where Jesus watched over them, arms raised in exaltation. No lightning emanated from him to strike her down.

Missed me again, she thought.