In a more perfect world a bullet would have smashed his knee or a shell fragment lacerated his thigh. Fitting wounds for a true warrior. As it happened he only swallowed a bit of gas, giving him ten days' leave. He was supposed to spend the time in London under medical supervision. But he was convinced fate or some version of the inevitable was at work here, so naturally he went to her, arriving in Paris with a hacking cough and a mild but persistent fever. It was raining, and the war had left the back streets in an electrical blackout and uncollected refuse. The wealthier districts hadn't changed much, though—nor had Zelle.

He first saw her on the staircase descending to the lobby, where she had kept him waiting for more than an hour. Her hair was loosely pinned in a bun. Her dress was fairly modest, out of respect for the season. She greeted him with a perfunctory kiss but then gave his hand a secret squeeze as they moved into the cocktail lounge. After less than thirteen hours away from the front nothing looked real to him.

They took a table in the rear and he ordered cognac to deaden the pain in his throat. Strains of Debussy came from a tiny piano. She told him that he looked very handsome in his uniform, though his hair needed trimming.

Then, looking at him, for the first time really looking at him: "You've changed, Nicky. I'm not sure how, but you've definitely changed."

He tried to smile, couldn't seem to manage it. "Yes, I suppose I have."

She pressed her hand to his forehead. "And you're also ill, aren't you? That's why they gave you the pass, because you're ill."

He shook his head. "It's nothing really." He felt ridiculous trying to sound brave, to impress her.

"But surely it must have been terrible out there. I mean—" She broke off with a wry smile. "Sorry."

They sat in silence for a while, their eyes meeting briefly, their hands only inches apart. He felt exhausted.

"So what's this new man like?" he finally asked.

"New man?"

"The one in your letter."

She shrugged. "Very nice."

"A genuine marquis?"

"So he says."

"Rich?"

"Oh God, yes."

"Handsome?"

"In a way."

It went on like that until dusk. Small talk, tentative talk. She asked about de Massloff, and he told her he had only seen the man briefly. He asked about her life in Amsterdam, and she said that it was quiet, sometimes dull. She had made a few friends to help her through the worst of it, and setting up a new home kept her busy. There had also been a few tentative offers to dance again, and she had recently seen an attorney regarding custody of her daughter. As she spoke, he watched her eyes and her mouth, her profile whenever she turned her head.