“I can’t decide whether this was a chapel or a beer cellar,” he says.

She nods. There are columns of swirling stone, incised at the top with grapes and grains, and saints and angels on the bosses. “Why was he here?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

“I do know that he shouldn’t have been here.”

The gramophone man places a bottle and glasses on their table and returns to study his records. The blues are blaring out now. A brassy lament. It sounds like a New Orleans funeral. Edie clinks her glass against Harry’s. She imagines the candlelight dipping and dust dropping from the ceiling as artillery roars in, pulverizing the street above; she imagines the floor lurching and the bottles clinking; she pictures Francis stumbling. When she looks up at Harry, she can see how the surface of the wine in his glass quivers.

“Is that really a funeral march?”

“I think so.”

Harry is staring at the scarred tabletop, as if he expects to find some meaning in it. There are names gouged into the wood, branded monograms and scorch marks, and his fingers trace these shapes. Is he expecting to find Francis’s initials? What meaning is Harry looking for here?

“Good God.” She downs her glass. She clenches and unclenches her hands. “This is probably the most depressing place I have ever been. Have you seen enough?”

“For a lifetime.”

HARRY RETURNS THE bottle to the gramophone man and says the name as he places coins in his palm.

“Blythe?” The man doesn’t look up from his newspaper.

“Francis.”

“Ask Dillon. If he was here, then Dillon would know.”

“Dillon?”

“The Wunderkammer—it’s a shop—Mr. Dillon’s cabinet of curiosities.” The man looks back down at the paper and laughs.

THEY BLINK AS they step back into the light. It seems too bright. She hears Harry take a deep breath and sees him shut his eyes. What does he see behind his eyes?

“Why was Francis here? Why does it matter that he was here? Was he in trouble? Is he still in trouble?”

The shake of Harry’s head is not the answer that she needs.

Chapter Forty-One: Harry

Chapter Forty-One

Harry

Ypres, September 1921

EDIE WIPES HER SLEEVE ON THE SHOPWINDOW. THEY ARE BUILDING above it, new plaster and lath rising up, and all the dust of old Ypres falling down.

“Is it open?”

“There’s a light on in the back.”

Through the window Harry can see a curious accumulation of items for sale: tourist guides, maps, books about the region before, chunks of architecture, items of uniform, shell cases, helmets of all nationalities, and fragments of colored glass. A handwritten sign proclaims: SOUVENIRS OF YPRES. AUTHENTICITY GUARANTEED. ALL CURRENCIES ACCEPTED. SOMETHING TO SUIT EVERY PURSE AND EVERY PALATE! It looks like the haul of the most almighty trench raid. He is momentarily startled by the ring of the bell as Edie pushes the door.