“I feared this day would never come,” Mr. Humphreys was saying.

“I know,” she said, thinking of all those dark days after Mike died, when she’d thought that no one was coming for them and that Polly was going to be killed, of the even darker days when she’d thought she and Alf and Binnie had lost the war.

“But it has all come right in the end,” Mr. Humphreys said, and there was a whoosh and a boom over by the bonfire. Pigeons wheeled frantically up over the square.

“I think I’d best go look for Alf and Binnie,” she said. Before they kill someone.

“And I’d best get to St. Paul’s,” he said, and in his best verger manner, “We’re having a service of thanksgiving tomorrow. I do hope you and your children will come.”

“We will,” she promised. If Alf’s not at the Old Bailey.

Mr. Humphreys pushed off through the crowd toward the Strand, and she started for the National Gallery, guided by further booms, an outraged “You hooligan!” and a shower of sparks. A harried-looking mother with three little girls, all eating ice creams, went by. A conga line snaked past her, kicking.

She waited for it to pass, craning her neck, looking for the flare of fireworks, for Binnie’s blonde head. “Alf!” she called. “Binnie!” She would never find them in this crowd.

“Were these what you were looking for, madam?” a man’s voice said behind her, and she turned to find an Army chaplain with both children in tow, one hand on Binnie’s shoulder and the other firmly gripping Alf’s collar.

“Look who we found!” Alf said happily. “The vicar!”

He had a two-day stubble of beard and looked exhausted. His chaplain’s uniform was covered in mud, and he was terribly thin.

“Mr. Goode,” Eileen said, unable to take in the fact that he was here and well and safe. “What are you doing here?”

“The war’s over,” Alf said.

“They flew us over this afternoon,” the vicar said. “Thank you for your letters. I wouldn’t have made it through without them.”

And I wouldn’t have made it through without yours, she thought.

“Aren’t you going to tell him welcome home?” Binnie prompted.

“Welcome home,” Eileen said softly.

“What sort of welcome’s that?” Binnie hooted, and Alf said, “Ain’t you gonna kiss him or nothin’? The war’s over!”

“Alf!” Eileen said reprovingly. “Mr. Goode—”

“No, he’s right. Kissing’s definitely in order,” he said, and took her in his arms and kissed her.

“I told you,” Binnie said to Alf.

“I didn’t think I had a hope of finding you in this crush,” the vicar said after he’d released her, “and then I spotted Guy Fawkes here.” He gave Alf’s shoulder a shake. “Though it’s a miracle I recognized either of them, they’ve changed so much. Alf’s a foot taller, and Binnie’s nearly grown.”

“Do you want to come with us?” Alf asked him. “We’re goin’ to Piccadilly Circus.”

“We are not,” Binnie said. “Mum said we’re goin’ to supper.”