On the whole she was very good to him during these days, very kind. Although she could not entirely neglect the marquis she never returned later than midnight. They shared the dawns, which were particularly beautiful, with a sculpture of leafless branches on the avenues, clear light on wet slate. Because they rarely discussed anything of importance—not the past, not the future, not even how they felt about themselves—Gray supposed that he would always remember this week as another timeless interlude between reality and escape from reality. They played Mah-Jongg without concentrating. They gave up champagne and drank diluted wine or beer. They spent an hour every morning in the lobby while a chambermaid cleaned their room.

The last day they hardly left the room, and Gray's unfinished pencil sketch more or less captures the mood: Zelle in profile at her dressing table, her eyes fixed on an empty glass, the cold light of evening, her hair still undone. Even an aerial bombardment couldn't seem to break the spell. They ate sandwiches, drank Burgundy, then lay down in the darkness and were very quiet, listening to each other's breathing.

There were a few parting words while waiting for a taxi in the morning. It was cold, with the promise of rain. Although he had told her to stay in bed, she insisted on accompanying him down to the carriage yard. The streets were deserted except for early delivery vans.

"I suppose we could write," she said.

"Yes, we could write." As if a letter from the warrior at the front would make the difference.

"Anyway, I'll need something to keep me occupied. I mean, while I'm in this . . . limbo."

He brushed her hair aside and bent to kiss her forehead. "I want you to stay in Amsterdam."

"Really, Nicky, I can't imagine—"

"No, listen to me. Go back to Amsterdam. Live with your daughter, live with that baron, but stay away from the war."

She broke away from him, jamming her hands in her coat pockets, staring out across the empty streets. "What are you trying to tell me?"

He moved to her side but didn't touch her. "There are people who might resent the way you live... who might distrust your motives." "What people?"

"I don't know . . . Charles Dunbar."

She was smiling. It was a coy smile, like that of a child who has outsmarted her parents. "Oh, for Godsakes, Nicky. Charles doesn't matter anymore."

"Yes, he does. Look, the game is different now. The rules have been changed. All the idiots are in control."

"But Charles Dunbar? Really, Nicky."

"Just stay away from it, all right? Just stay away. "

Later, after the taxi had arrived, there was a more conventional farewell with a lingering kiss and a few whispered endearments. She told him to take care of himself and keep warm, to write and not be unhappy—all of which indicated she still had no conception of this war. None at all. And that worried him.