Sasha reached for the wine and refilled his glass. His face turned the familiar raspberry pink of his deepest rage. Iris looked back and forth between the two of them and thought, Of course. Fellow travelers. She tried to remember where Guy Burgess worked—was it the British Foreign Office?—my God.

“Hiss,” said Aunt Vivian. “What a name. I mean, it’s too perfect. Snakes, you know.”

Iris looked at the clock and said, “Goodness, it’s far past bedtime. Children, up you go and into your pajamas, chop chop. Brush your teeth. We’ll bathe in the morning.”

THEY GAVE UP AROUND midnight, Iris and Aunt Vivian, and went to bed while the men continued their drinking and carousing outdoors. Iris stared at the ceiling for an hour or two. Songs and dirty laughter. At last she rolled on her side and fell asleep, only to be woken by Sasha as he climbed clumsily into bed and scooped her into his arms.

“I’m a beast,” he told her.

“I know.”

“I do love you, you know. You and the boys. I’m crazy about you.”

“Funny way of showing it.”

He turned her on her back. He was stark naked, warm and damp-skinned and salty-fresh, like he’d gone swimming in the sea. “I can’t tell you unless I’m drunk. It doesn’t work. I’m only happy when I’m drunk.”

“Were you swimming?”

“Yes. Best way to sober up, a nice cold swim in the sea.”

He kissed her. She stiffened her lips, but he persisted until she yielded. As they kissed, he reached down and pulled her nightdress up and up, until he had to break off the kiss to pass it over her head. Then he moved down to kiss her breasts, and she gave up—stopped fighting this thing, whatever it was, this chemistry still lingering between them, even when she was furious at him. Anyway, he didn’t stink of cigarettes and sin—he was like a sea creature, all washed clean, and she hadn’t slept with him in weeks, and she was hungry for something, for any man at all. His wet hair fell on her skin. They mated like animals, a wrestling match, tangling and rolling and biting. She made him pay for it, by God. In the end, they lay panting, Iris on her stomach and Sasha a dead weight atop her, all four hands gripping the headboard for dear life. Why did they do it like this? Why couldn’t they have tender intercourse anymore, like two human beings who loved each other? He rolled away, and his long limbs caught the moonlight from the window. His nose made a sharp, elegant triangle against the dark wall. For the longest time, until she drifted to sleep, he was her beautiful Sasha again, the father of her children, her warrior, her paladin of peace.