“I am.”

“I’m Seaman—”

“Come below out of this rain,” he said, and motioned Ernest to follow him down the ladder.

Ernest climbed down it after him. The hold looked exactly the same—the littered galley, the bunk with its heap of gray blankets, the same four inches of brackish water on the floor. And the dim, flickering hurricane lamp over the table, which, hopefully, wouldn’t illuminate his face too much. If he could deliver the package and get out of here quickly enough …

He descended the last two rungs and started across the hold, but before he’d waded two steps, the Commander had him in a bear hug. “You’re a sight for sore eyes!” he bellowed, pounding him on the back. “What the bloody hell are you doing here, Kansas?”

For many years the prince wandered until at last he came to the lonely place where the witch had left Rapunzel.

RAPUNZEL

Imperial War Museum, London—7 May 1995

IT WAS A QUARTER PAST NINE WHEN HE REACHED THE museum. It didn’t open till ten, but he’d come through early, hoping they’d arrive early, too, and he’d be able to talk to them before they went in.

But there was no one standing outside the doors or on the steps, and no one in the courtyard, where a tank, an anti-aircraft gun, and a motorboat were on display. He tried the main doors on the off chance that the lobby was open, but they were locked, and he couldn’t see anyone at the ticket desk yet.

He walked down to the courtyard and looked at the tank, wishing they’d get here. There was a “St. Paul’s in the Blitz” exhibit opening at St. Paul’s Cathedral today as well. He’d debated going to that one instead, then decided his chances were better at this one, since there’d be more attendees here. But he’d hoped that by coming early, he could make it to both. And now there wasn’t a soul here.

He wandered over to the boat. It had Lily Maid stenciled on its bow. There was an impressive array of machine-gun bullet holes in its stern, and a placard on it reading, “One of the many small craft manned by civilians which participated in the evacuation of over 340,000 British and other Allied soldiers from Dunkirk.”

He examined the bullet holes and then retrieved a museum brochure someone had jammed in the windscreen of the boat and went back to sit on the steps and read it. “FINEST HOURS: A Fiftieth-Anniversary World War II Tribute,” it read, and listed the museum’s upcoming special events and exhibitions: “The Battle of Britain,” “The War in North Africa,” “Women at War,” “The Secret That Won the War,” “The Evacuation of the Children.” If he didn’t find anyone here or at St. Paul’s, he definitely needed to attend that last one.

If he could get here. Badri and Linna hadn’t been able to get a drop to open anywhere near “Women at War” ’s opening date, even though they’d labored over it for months and gone as far afield as Yorkshire. When was “The Evacuation of the Children”? If it was soon, he might be able to stay till its opening. It wasn’t till September. He couldn’t waste four months on the off chance that he could find an evacuee who’d had contact with Merope after she went to London. Or who knew what other children had been at Denewell Manor.