“I doubt that would stop him,” Talbot said. “You do realize you’re only making things worse, don’t you? There’s nothing a man finds so attractive as a woman who plays hard to get.”

“So you think I should go out with him? Fairchild’s my partner, and Stephen’s her true love. She’s been mad about him since she was six!”

“I’m only saying that the more you run, the more he’ll pursue you.”

“So what do you think I should do?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Mary had no idea either. She obviously couldn’t go out with him—just the fact that he wanted her to was killing poor Fairchild—and she didn’t dare talk to him on the telephone. But he refused to take no for an answer.

“I think you should go out with him, Triumph,” Parrish said, “and use the occasion to convince him Fairchild’s the one he should be going out with.”

Which had been a dreadful idea ever since the days of the American Pilgrims, when John Alden had attempted to persuade Priscilla Mullins to go out with Miles Standish, and Priscilla had said, “Speak for yourself, John.” The last thing she needed was for Stephen to say, “Speak for yourself, Isolde.”

She wondered if John Alden had been a time traveler, who’d then had no idea how to get out of the muck-up he was in. And it was a muck-up. Everyone at the post got involved, and Reed and Grenville were both furious with Mary. “I think it’s positively beastly to steal another girl’s man,” Grenville said, and when Mary attempted to explain, she added, “Well, you must have done something.”

“Look at her,” Reed whispered, glancing over at Fairchild. “She’s absolutely heartbroken.”

She was, though she hadn’t said a word of reproach to Mary. She hadn’t said anything to her. She was silent on their runs, except for saying, “I need a stretcher over here!” and “This one’s got internal injuries,” and at the post she kept carefully out of hearing of the telephone, but she was obviously suffering. And Mary was clearly responsible for that suffering, which meant either her being here had altered events, which was impossible—historians couldn’t do that—or that her coming between Fairchild and Stephen didn’t matter, that they wouldn’t have got together even if she hadn’t been here. Because Stephen had been killed.

Of course he’d been killed. He was not only tipping V-1s but living in the middle of Bomb Alley. And hundreds of thousands of charming young men just like him had been killed at Dunkirk and El Alamein and Normandy.

But it will kill Fairchild, she thought, and was afraid it might have done exactly that. She wouldn’t have been the first person in World War II to have lost someone and volunteered for dangerous duty. And Mary couldn’t help feeling that if Fairchild did that, it would have been her fault, that both their deaths would be on her head. If she hadn’t been here and pushed Talbot into the gutter, Talbot wouldn’t have wrenched her knee. She wouldn’t have had to substitute for her, and Stephen would never have come to the post.