“Not at all. I worship your American characters. Shall we step outside? It’s a rare evening out there.”

He knew the cottage better than she did—guided her through the darkened sunroom to the French doors—knew the trick of opening the sticky middle one. The doors led straight onto the grass and a gentle salt breeze coming off the Channel.

“Come along. We won’t be overheard,” Philip said.

Iris glanced down the lane, where Sasha would be arriving if he were going to arrive. Nothing stirred. She walked on next to Philip, across the grass toward the sea cliffs.

“You’re right, it’s a beautiful evening. It’s a beautiful place—magical—I can’t thank you enough.”

He made a diffident English noise. Some seagulls squawked out of the darkness.

“I wanted to ask you about Miss Fischer,” Iris said.

“Nedda? What about her?”

“I found her photograph in Sasha’s desk.”

He stopped and said, Ah.

“She had brown hair instead of blond, and she was wearing a uniform. But it was definitely her. You can’t mistake her face.”

“No, you can’t.” Philip resumed walking. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t even know what to ask. But I thought—since she’s a friend of yours—I don’t know. Maybe you know how they might have known each other.”

Philip motioned to the left and Iris saw a stone bench, hardly visible in the starlight. She sat and he sat next to her, stretching out his legs with a sigh. “Of course you should ask your husband,” he said.

“I know. But he’s not around, is he? And I’m asking you instead.”

“You see, I don’t know how to answer you.”

“Then allow me to guess, and if I’m right, you can nod or something.”

“That seems fair.”

“I think Sasha may have been involved in some sort of intelligence operations during the war, when we were in Zurich, and Miss Fischer was a contact of his.”

“You’re very clever.”

“I’d have to be stupid not to figure that out.”

“Then why do you ask me?”

“Maybe I’m just wondering if you did the same thing.”

“And I suppose I’ve just confirmed your suspicions?”

“No,” she said, “I realized when you told me about the house being used for intelligence. I didn’t think you’d let them take over the family estate unless they gave you a piece of the action.”

He started to laugh. “How I love you Americans.”

The air smelled of night blossoms, of jasmine and the nearby sea. The wind sifted through the boxwoods. Iris put her face in her hands.

“Oh, my dear. I’m sorry.” Philip put a gentle arm around her shoulders. She turned her head into his chest for a moment or two, maybe thirty seconds—bliss. His shirt was unspeakably soft. Everything beneath it perfectly solid.