“Well, I’m never going to get drunk. I’m never going to touch a drop,” Kip said.

Aunt Vivian snorted. “Funny, that’s what they all say.”

At last Iris heard her husband stirring. The water ran in the bathroom—footfalls and thumps and clatters—doors open and shut. She went up to check on his progress and found him standing in front of the dresser, concentrating on his necktie. He looked remarkably well for a man recovering from the bender to end all benders—skin pink, hair brushed back wet, trousers and shirt correctly buttoned.

“Was it true about Ruth?” she asked.

He gives the tie a last tug. “Yes. I’m sorry. I never meant to tell you.”

“You’re going up to London, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Say good-bye to the boys. They’ll miss you.”

Sasha turned from the dresser and looked down at her. He’d always looked down at her from that height, her spindly husband. He lifted his hand to touch her, but she slapped it away. He sighed and walked past her to pick up his briefcase and walk carefully down the stairs. She listened to his voice, talking to the boys, and stared out the window toward the sea.

AT LAST, THE HOUSE was still. The boys were in bed, and so were the girls. Mrs. Betts had retired to her room—God only knew what she thought of all this, because she didn’t let on—and Aunt Vivian was reading a book in the library.

“I’m going for a walk,” Iris said.

“Good for you. Take as long as you need. All night, if you want.”

Iris studied her aunt’s blue eyes, her blond hair pulled back from her elegant cheekbones, and she thought how much Ruth looked like Aunt Vivian, while Iris resembled their mother.

“Thank you,” she said.

She walked out the kitchen door and into the cool, clear night that smelled of hay. The clouds had moved on, the stars sprang from the black sky. A slender moon lit the path before her. When she reached Highcliffe, she circled around back and rapped on the French door that led from the study, where Philip always sat at his desk in the evening. He looked startled to see her.

Then his face relaxed, as much as a face so ravaged could express tranquility.

Ruth

JULY 1952

Moscow

The hospital’s like any American hospital, not that I have much experience of hospitals. Actually, it reminds me of the one in Rome, where Iris lay in that bed with her cast and bandages and her mournful expression. Bare white walls, doctors and nurses who don’t speak your language, a sense of panic that nobody really knows what they’re doing.

And lo! There’s Sasha Digby in the waiting room, looking destroyed. He sits hunched on a chair, hands plunged into his hair. “How is she?” I ask him.