Near to where the fires had been, anyway. Whole streets were gutted, with patches still burning in spite of the rain. It looked like vids Mike had seen of London after the pinpoint. Through the charred timbers, he could see the wreckage the next street over, and the next, but no sign of St. Paul’s.

We must be in the Barbican, he thought, or Moorgate.

“And here we are,” the cabbie said, pulling over to the curb alongside a still-smoldering warehouse.

There, just past it, was St. Paul’s courtyard, and beyond, the pillared west front of the cathedral. Mike fumbled in his jacket for his wallet.

“Told you I’d get you here,” the cabbie crowed.

The nurse must have taken his wallet. He fumbled in his trouser pockets and brought up a shilling and twopence. Oh, no, not after he’d made it to within a few hundred yards.

“I must have lost my wallet last night, in the raid,” he stammered, searching through his pockets again. His papers weren’t there either. Or his ration book. The nurses must have locked them up for safekeeping. “I only have—”

“You don’t owe me nothin’, guv’nor,” the cabbie said, waving the coins away, “after what your lot’s done.”

“My lot—?”

“You Yanks.” He held up the newspaper. The banner headline read, “Roosevelt Pledges Support to Britain.”

“Nothing can stop us winning the war now,” the cabbie said.

Thank you, President Roosevelt, Mike thought. You came through in the nick of time.

“And any rate, it was worth the fare just to see for myself she’s still all in one piece,” the cabbie said. “A sight for sore eyes, ain’t she, guv?” He pointed toward the cathedral. “Looks like we’re not the only ones what wanted to take a look at the old girl.”

He was pointing at knots of people standing in the courtyard, looking up at St. Paul’s. Mike was too far away to see if Bartholomew and Polly were among them.

He got out of the taxi. “Thanks—for everything.”

“The same to you, mate,” the cabbie said, and drove off.

Mike limped up the street toward St. Paul’s, looking for Polly and Bartholomew, but he didn’t see them among the people in the courtyard. He hoped they hadn’t gone off looking for him.

No, they wouldn’t have any idea where to look, he thought. And they know I’d try to come here. This is where they’d wait. He looked over at the porch and the broad steps where more people stood and sat. Unless Polly and Bartholomew have gone to Blackfriars to find Eileen.

No, Polly didn’t know he’d told Eileen to wait there …

A hand grabbed his sleeve. Mike turned, expecting it to be Polly, but it was a thin, dazed-looking man. “This is where I work,” the man said urgently, pointing at the still-standing door in the wreckage behind Mike. It hung in its frame, held up by two blackened supports. The rest of the warehouse was completely gutted. “What do I do now?” he asked.