For some reason, although she’s rested against Wilfred a million times, she thinks of that morning in Switzerland, when she sat on the fallen log and her head touched Wilfred’s chest for the first time. How she listened to the beat of his heart and the movement of air in his damaged lungs. How they seemed like a miracle to her, these vital signs, these proofs of Wilfred’s existence. She listens to them now as if they’re new to her, as if they belong to a different man, and as those thuds and whooshes fill her head, Elfriede realizes that she and Wilfred have been speaking in German, for the first time in two years. Of course, from the beginning of their marriage, they always spoke English in public, in front of the servants and Wilfred’s family, but German remained their private language, the dialect of their intimacy. Until that catastrophic summer of 1914, when a major in the British Army had—like Caesar’s wife—to set himself above suspicion, and Elfriede’s native tongue disappeared from their lives as if it had never been spoken. Now it returns, just as the last instant of sunlight vanishes over the curve of the earth, and they have nothing left to say to each other.

Or do they? Elfriede senses a stirring in Wilfred’s chest, like something wants out of there. She thinks, No, don’t say it, don’t say some stupid, comforting thing, some wretched apology. But it’s not enough. Something must be said.

“I should have given it up, shouldn’t I? I should have resigned my commission when we married. Taken some position at a bank.”

Elfriede rouses herself. “No. You’d have been miserable at a bank. You’re too good at this.”

“Anyway, it’s done.”

“Yes.”

Elfriede’s feet ache. They always ache, carrying this enormous baby around. More and more of her weight comes to bear on Wilfred, she can’t help it, but he stands firm. Hasn’t he always stood firm?

“Where did you hear this thing?” he asks softly, somewhere near her hair.

What thing, she might ask. But isn’t it obvious?

“From Mrs. MacLeod. You remember her husband died last winter. Apparently he had a woman in Paris too. But I expect you know more about that than I do.”

“Oh, God. MacLeod. Poor devil.”

“Some might say he had it coming.”

Wilfred makes some Scotch kind of noise. “So the punishment for adultery is to have oneself blown apart beyond recognition?”

“That’s a merciful death. He didn’t suffer. He didn’t know any pain.”

“But his widow does, you mean.”

“I wasn’t thinking of her. I was thinking of me.”

“Elfriede—”