Her lips twitched. No, she was no Drake Elton. So she would be herself, instead. After a moment, when Dot didn’t volunteer what it was, Margot nodded toward the building across the street at which Dot now stared. “Eight thousand seventy-eight.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Bricks. In that building.”

A few of Dot’s facial muscles smoothed out. “You counted?”

“Of course not. I calculated.”

A bit of a smile snuck into the corners of her mouth. “What of that one?” She motioned to the next building down, which, much like the OB, was a combination of white blocks and red bricks—though much smaller.

“Two thousand bricks. Nine hundred twenty-two blocks. Thirty-four windows.”

Now the smile even reached the young woman’s blue-grey eyes. “What about . . . stitches in my blouse?”

“Hmm.” Margot leaned close enough to see how small they were, approximated the length of seams and hems and cuffs. “Ten thousand, three hundred sixty.”

“Really?” Dot lifted her sleeve and studied the cuff. “That many?”

“Give or take twenty, depending on how the seams are joined.”

A droning sound filled the air. They both stopped and tilted their heads back. Margot’s every muscle went stiff until the aircraft zoomed overhead.

Dot visibly relaxed. “Sopwith.”

“One of the new Camels, I think.” Hand up to shield the sun from her eyes, Margot watched it as far as she could. Definitely not a German Gotha, which was the important thing. Only a few of them had made it all the way to London, but when they did, hundreds died.

Not today though. Not here. Thank you, Father. Eight, sixteen, twenty-four, thirty-six . . .

“Would you like to sit and eat with me? I’ve been finding a bench facing the arch.”

“That sounds lovely.” She was a bit surprised at how true her statement felt. But thus far, Dot was certainly the least objectionable of all the young women around. Margot could even come up with what she assumed Maman would deem reasonable, friendly questions to ask. “Are you from London?”

“All my life, yes. Well, mostly.” Wincing, Dot led the way around the corner. “I’m not much of one for travel. There was one time when I went to visit my mother’s family in Spain. And another time when I went on holiday with my friend, Ada, to the Cotswolds. Perfectly pleasant journeys by all accounts, but . . . I prefer to stick close to home.”

“Spain! How interesting.” To look at the Elton siblings, she wouldn’t have thought they were Spanish. But that was no doubt silly of her, to expect them to fit some sort of mold when it came to their coloring. “Given your surname though, I’m assuming your father is English?”

“Was.” A few clouds shadowed her voice as she said it. Dot motioned to a bench. “He passed away just before the war began. Some sort of cancer. My mother—she died in a boating accident when I was only nine.”