He studied her, and wondered what it would take to make his sister into a girl this reserved. Was it just the war? It was hard to imagine a war like this at home, the bombs blowing out doorsteps in Biloxi and whole buildings in New York.

“How many men are still in love with you right now?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She didn’t blush, or appear to calculate.

“You’re a beautiful girl.”

“Really?” Her forehead wrinkled, then smoothed. She lifted her spoon and cooled the soup deliberately before bringing it to her lips.

Red thought about the lines of gray people outside. This girl was dark and light, rose skin and pink lips; it was worth his while to stay in this game, to get past her guard.

“Do you like being beautiful?”

“It’s better than not being, I suppose.” There was almost a shrug in her voice. Red felt a small, bright victory at provoking it.

“You suppose,” he said. He couldn’t keep from laughing. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said. “You’re either the smartest or the dumbest girl I’ve ever known.”

She looked at him. “Is that nice?”

Red pushed the weak soup away. “I give up,” he said. “Let’s go.” He was only half surprised that she followed. It was his last night as a man who’d been good at his training in Florida. In the morning he’d be a man who was at war.

The night was clear, cool in the absence of clouds, moonless and starry in the blackout, and the air improved Red’s mood. The waiting lines had dispersed into walking people, single and in pairs, and the people didn’t seem so sad in the dark. There had been no bombs for three days, and spirits were high. With Irene beside him, he crossed the Thames at Putney Bridge and the water ran darkly beneath. The night was beautiful, the girl was beautiful, Red himself felt beautiful.

Overcome, he caught the girl’s hand in his, but it was so lifeless and passive it made him angry. He crushed it in his grip, sliding the bones and sinews inward toward the palm, the slender fingers crossing one over the other.

“Don’t,” the girl said. She pulled her hand from his but kept walking by his side, eyes straight ahead.

“You’re like death,” Red said. “There’s no life in you. What’s the point of being beautiful?”