As I open the front door, I can feel the house sulking. I switch on the lights and hang up my coat in the hall, fighting the urge to hunch my shoulders defensively. It's Mo, of course. This is her house as much as it's mine—okay, it's our maisonette, two civil servants can't possibly afford a house in London even if they're both management track—and it reflects her mood. I canceled Pete and Sandy but I can't cancel Mo. She's got a snit on, perfectly justifiable. I really ought to go upstairs and apologize, but as I bend down to untie my shoelaces I find my hands are shaking.

An indeterminate time later I open my eyes. I'm sitting at the kitchen table with an empty glass in my hand. The quality of the light just changed.

"Bob?" It's Mo, wearing a dressing gown, rubbing her eyes. "Shit. Bob"—her tone of voice changes, softening slightly—"what's wrong?"

"I—" I clear my throat, force air through my larynx: "I screwed up."

The bottle of Talisker sitting beside my left hand is half-empty. Mo peers at it, then takes a step closer and peers at me. Then she picks up the bottle, pops the cork, and pours a generous two fingers into my glass, bless her.

"Drink up." She pauses with a hand on the back of the other kitchen chair. "Am I going to need one too?"

"Dunno. Maybe."

She goes to the cupboard and takes out another glass before she sits down. I blink at her, red-eyed and confused.

"Talk." She pours a shot into her own glass. "In your own time."

I glance at the kitchen clock. "It's one a.m."

"And it'll be one a.m. again, at least once a day for the rest of your life. So talk, if you want. Or drink up and come to bed."

I sip my whisky. "I screwed up."

"How badly?"

"I killed a bystander."

"A by—" She freezes with her glass halfway to her lips. "Jesus, Bob." Pause. "How did you do that?"

She looks appalled, but probably much less appalled than your spouse would look if you confessed to killing someone over the kitchen table. (Mo is made of stern stuff.)

"Angleton sent me to do a routine job. Only I missed something and fucked up my prep."

"But you're still—" She bites her lip, and now she looks shaken; my ears sketch in the missing word: alive.

"Oh, I almost got it right," I explain, waving my glass. "Warrant Officer Hastings wasn't hurt. And I'm here." But then I remember the purple flash again, and the door opening, and the sight of Helen's face aging a hundred years in a second right before my eyes. "Only the tea lady opened the door at the worst possible moment . . ."

Mo is silent for a while, so I take another sip.