He wasn’t. There was no one in the street or at the end of it, though he’d half hoped Eileen would manage to get away from the warden, too. He’d hated abandoning her, but he’d been afraid he might not have another chance. Once inside the shelter, they’d have had a hell of a time getting out. And he had to get to St. Paul’s. Polly didn’t know what John Bartholomew looked like, and besides, there was no way they’d let a woman up on the roofs, which was where Bartholomew was bound to be. Another wave of incendiary-bearing planes was already coming this way, the rumbling drone growing louder by the second.

The fastest way back to St. Paul’s was the way they’d come with the warden, but he didn’t dare risk it. That warden had been doggedly determined. When he discovered Mike was missing, he was liable to come after him. I’d better take the next street over, Mike thought. He emerged from the doorway, looked quickly in both directions, and took off running, thinking, At least I don’t have to worry about being heard. The roar of the planes drowned out everything else.

Before he’d gone a hundred yards, he regretted his decision to come this way. The street curved sharply, and the lane branching off it was not the next street over. It was no wider than an alley, with several other, darker alleys opening off it.

Mike picked the one that looked like it led out of the maze, hampered by the fact that he couldn’t see anything.

The alley didn’t lead anywhere. It ended in a brick wall. Mike retraced his steps, cursing. Why couldn’t they have figured out John Bartholomew was at St. Paul’s two weeks ago, two months ago, so all they’d have had to do was walk into the cathedral and ask for him? He’d known where he was. He should have asked Polly when St. Paul’s had nearly burned down instead of assuming it was in May, and he should have asked Eileen what John Bartholomew’s assignment was. But they’d all been so focused on airfields and then Bletchley Park. And now, instead of walking into St. Paul’s and politely asking Polly’s Mr. Humphreys for Bartholomew, he had to fight his way through a raid at the last minute in the dark.

He realized he must have missed a turning. The street he found himself on led back downhill, and when he turned and went in the opposite direction, twisted back on itself, and ran downhill, too. The drone grew louder, so loud he could barely hear the clatter of incendiaries falling on all sides. They were several streets over, but they lit the whole area in a garish white light.

Good, Mike thought. At least I’ll be able to see where I am. But nothing looked familiar at all. He glanced up, searching for the dome of St. Paul’s to orient himself by, but the buildings on either side of the narrow street were too tall.