But when they came up the stairs and emerged onto the street, St. Paul’s dome was clearly outlined against the searchlit sky. They started up the hill toward it.

We’re actually going to make it, Polly thought. Which meant it was true. Mr. Dunworthy and Mr. Bartholomew—and Colin—had kept what had happened secret all these years, had been willing to sacrifice them to keep the secret.

Like Ultra, she thought. That secret had been kept by hundreds and hundreds of people for years and years—because it was absolutely essential to winning the war. What if their getting trapped, their coming back, had had to be kept secret for some reason equally vital to time travel? Or to history? And that was why they couldn’t be told, why they’d had to be sacrificed …

“What time is it?” Mike asked.

Polly squinted at her watch. “Six.”

“Good, we’ve still got plenty of time—” Mike said, and a siren cut sharply across his words.

I knew it, Polly thought, and took off at a trot, Mike and Eileen following.

“It’s only the siren,” Mike said, panting. “That still gives us twenty minutes till the planes, doesn’t it?”

I don’t know, Polly thought, sprinting up the hill. Please let there be twenty minutes. That’s all we need.

And it looked like they’d be granted it. They were nearly to the top of Ludgate Hill before the searchlights switched on, and the anti-aircraft guns still hadn’t started firing by the time they came to the iron fence surrounding the cathedral. And why couldn’t it, of all the fences in London, have been taken down and donated to the scrap-metal drive so they could go in the north transept door? They’d have to go around to the west front.

She started along the fence. “Damn it,” Mike said behind her.

“What is it?” she asked, and heard what he had, the drone of a plane. “There’s still time. Come along,” and rounded the corner to the west front and started up the broad steps to where a Christmas tree stood in front of the Great West Door.

“You, there!” a man’s voice called from behind them. “Where do you think you’re going?” A shuttered pocket torch fixed its narrow beam on Polly and then on Mike and Eileen. A man in an ARP helmet emerged from the darkness at the foot of the steps. “What are you lot doing outside? You should be in a shelter. Didn’t you hear the sirens?”

“Yes,” Mike said. “We were—”

“I’ll take you to the shelter.” He started up the steps toward Polly. “Come along.”

Not again, Polly thought. Not when we’re so near.

She glanced up the steps, wondering if she could make it the rest of the way up to the porch and over to the door before he caught her. She didn’t think so. “We weren’t looking for a shelter, sir,” she said. “We’re looking for a friend of ours. He’s on the St. Paul’s fire watch.”