“Jane said I had to fight,” Louisa said. “She said the world was poisoning itself, and I was young, so it was up to me to make it better.”

I heard her sniff. She loved that old woman.

After a bit I asked her quietly, “What will you do now?”

She sighed. “Mrs. Campbell asked me to stay and help her put the Limehouse right, and work for her when the damage is mended, at the same wages I had for looking after Jane. So I will be all right for a bit.”

“Can the Limehouse be mended?”

It looked like a great old smoking ruin when I saw it earlier the day.

“There was a fire inspector round this morning. He says the building’s sound. The damage was mostly to the bar, and only Room One had smoke in it. They let us in to collect clothes and things! My flute and my passport and wages, and Mummy’s album of Jamaica photographs—all fine. Mrs. Campbell is Jane’s next of kin, so she’ll have a little extra to pay for the repairs.”

“I wish I’d seen the blaze,” I said. “Poor old Nan. Poor old Jane.”

“It wasn’t sad,” Louisa said. “Or—I was sad, but Jane—she seemed ready. She was ready. And I was—I was so lucky to be there. I wasn’t there for either of my parents. I was—” She grasped for the right word. “It was a blessing to be there with her. I was blessed.”

“I’m glad,” I said, and twined my fingers through hers to squeeze them tight.

“How is Jamie?” Louisa whispered.

My turn to grasp at words, though I’d known she’d get round to asking when she was good and ready.

Truthfully, I didn’t know how he was. I’d seen him for five minutes when his mam went in, and he was barely awake, dazed and mazy. I’d felt like an intruder on his mammy’s grief, so I’d left them to it.

“Not very well,” I said at last. “In pain. Missing half his fingers and all his toes. Out of work. And blaming himself for seventeen young men dead. Which isn’t his fault at all, at all.”

In the black quiet of the box bed, Louisa cried so silently I didn’t hear until she gasped for air.

“Oh God,” she said. “Oh God, I think it’s my fault.”

“Your fault?” The words burst out of me as a sob. “It’s not your flipping fault, Louisa! What about those Messerschmitt 110 night fighters?”

“I translated all that code.”

“He gave you all that code to translate! Nor did I have to pass it on, which I did willingly! We did it together.”

“But if he hadn’t flown to Norway—”