She wondered if that softening would take place with her. If she could be reshaped into something more—

More what?

She wasn’t sure what she wanted to be.

She supposed that was what she had come to find out.

There were stacks of old magazines piled about. She searched for one Gwen assured her was always there, the centenary issue of the Illustrated London News with Princess Elizabeth on the cover. Their client, even if the princess would never know The Right Sort Marriage Bureau was on the case. She thought about what it might have been like had the princess actually walked through their doors, looking for a real husband, rather than being paired with some minor impoverished royal who fit all the external parameters for a princely consort. Who would she match with the heir presumptive from amongst their ninety-six single men? Maybe Mr. MacLaren. He looked like a prince, even though he was a banker and a banker’s son. He was tall, with a courtly bearing, and had served with distinction in the Black Watch, First Battalion. He had shown up in their office for his first interview in dress uniform, complete with kilt and tam. And a very dashing eye patch, courtesy of the Battle of the Bulge.

Let’s see if the Royal Navy can match that, she thought.

Yet it was churlish of her to belittle the young princess. Elizabeth could have escaped to safety in the country, but she had remained in London. They all did, living through the Blitz with their subjects. Royalty imposed its duties during wartime, and they accepted them without qualm, even taking, what was it, nine bombs to the Palace? The Queen said she was glad they had been bombed. Something about being able to look the East End in the face.

Although Iris doubted they’d let Elizabeth marry an East Ender.

Maybe Margaret?

No.

She got up and returned her paperwork to the receptionist who began making up a file. Iris retook her seat.

“Would you prefer the couch, Miss?” asked the one-armed civilian. “That chair looks uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, giving him a warm smile. “And thank you for your service. Thank all of you.”

There was a group of muttered responses from several of the lads. None from two, who stared blankly across the room, seeing things the others didn’t.

The door opened, and Gwen emerged, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. She saw Iris looking at her with concern and smiled weakly.

“It’s all right,” she whispered as she sat next to her.

“But—”

“I’m fine.”

The receptionist went into the inner office with Iris’s file, then returned.

“Miss Sparks?” she called.

Iris sat unmoving, looking at her friend’s tears. Gwen reached over and patted her hand.

“Be brave,” she said. “Drinks and cake, remember?”

“Right,” said Iris, getting to her feet. “Here goes nothing.”

She strode to the door and knocked.

“Just go in,” said the receptionist.

Iris opened the door. It was heavy, and the other side was covered in maroon leather padding.