Jane going down those stairs in the inky dark, on her own, without her sticks!

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Campbell!” I gasped, leaping to my feet. “It won’t happen again.”

But as I rushed from the room I realized how hard it would be to catch Miss Lind alone another time.

Ellen:

The moon was nearly full, but it was pig-awful dreich flying weather. At Windyedge we had sheets of sleety rain; five miles inland, higher up, the moors got a blanket of snow. Three Blenheim ops got canceled. The lads slept all afternoon in case of a nighttime clear-up, and Phyllis and I stayed at the Limehouse making toast over the fire while Louisa and Jane pounded out piano duets.

Louisa was tense as a fiddle string. Whenever they finished a tune and Jane turned pages, Louisa leaped up to peep through the rain-flecked front window.

The only folk who came in were Wing Commander Cromwell and Elisabeth Lind, after their afternoon with the Jerry prisoners.

“Sergeant Lind, you’re dismissed. Volunteer McEwen, take me to the aerodrome,” Cromwell demanded. “Come along, Flight Officer Pennyworth, you’re needed to write up my report. Toss your cycles in the Hillman, and you can ride back later and save the van making another trip.”

Oh, ta very much, Wing Commander Cromwell. Flight Officer Pennyworth and I were looking forward to a push-bike ride through a sleet storm!

While Phyllis and I pulled on our overcoats, Sergeant Lind stirred up the fire and then threw herself down in Jane’s comfortable chair. But she didn’t call for Nan to get her tea or coffee or sandwiches. As we filed out after Cromwell, I stole a keek in her direction, and, oh, was I going to have to worry about her and Jamie both now? She was that tightly wound she couldn’t relax. She sat stiff and straight, gripping the arms of that chair like she wanted to break them off, staring at Louisa’s piano-playing back as if she were trying to lay a curse.

I dropped off Cromwell and Phyllis and slogged back on my push-bike, dodging icy raindrops and spraying slush up my shins. I was away about twenty minutes. When I came into the dry at the Limehouse again, the musicians were still tinkling away at the piano, and Sergeant Lind was asleep with her head on the table.

Jane turned to smile at me.

I raised one finger to my lips and pointed. “Whisht.”

Jane didn’t lift her hands from the piano keys—just let them fall still. She sat with her head atilt, favoring her left ear. After a few more notes Louisa stopped playing, too, and listened.

The big room was mostly empty, but it was full of soft wee noises: the sound of the low peat fire burning, the Scotch pine boughs swishing outside in the wind, sleet tapping against the window glass.