She moves ahead of him, her steps slowing as she peers into the display cases down the right-hand side of the room. She is standing on her tiptoes. She leans closer, and he can see her reflection and her breath misting the glass. The cases are full of salvaged personal belongings. He sees pipes and tobacco tins, cigarette cases, shaving sets, and mechanical pencils. There are penknives, rosaries, and a row of spectacles, looking poignantly fragile. There is something terrible, he thinks, about these spectacles, the light blinking off their blind ownerless eyes. Edie’s reflection moves over tie pins, framed photographs, and wedding rings. She turns around to Harry and wrinkles her nose. He thinks about Rachel moving around the room of identifying objects. What price would her rings fetch? Are these things too the property of missing men? He both looks for—and doesn’t want to see—items that might have been his own.

“Can I help you young folks?” says the man at the back of the room.

Edie gasps and then laughs.

He steps forward out of the shadows and smiles. He is wearing an army greatcoat over a smoking jacket that has seen better days. Licking the palm of his fingerless gloves, he smooths his yellow hair and then offers the hand to Harry. Damp wool presses against his palm.

“Michael Dillon at your service, sir. A pair of redheads, eh? There’s trouble ahead!” He whistles through his teeth and touches a joshing fist to Harry’s chest. “Is it a souvenir for your lovely girl that you’re after?”

“Not quite,” says Harry.

“Anything that you want, we can get it for you. A trinket? A jewel? A keepsake? Or perhaps it’s something more personal? No request too exotic or too awkward. The world begins again here and we can make it what we want it to be.” Michael Dillon’s eyes narrow as he grins.

“We were told that you might be able to give us some information,” Harry says.

Edie steps forward. Harry is aware of the pressure of her fingertips on his shoulder.

“Information, is it? And what would that be, then?”

“You might know someone,” says Edie. “Or might have known someone.”

Dillon tilts his chin. “Well, I might! Did the particular someone have a name, or is it a guessing game?”

“Does the name Francis Blythe mean anything to you?”

“Blythe?” Dillon speaks the name slowly. Harry watches his mouth shape the word. His eyes slide to the ceiling. His mouth looks like it’s about to make an answer, but he shakes his head instead.

“We think that he might have been here in October 1917—in the place called the Blue Angel.”

“I’m sorry,” says Dillon. “So many names. So many faces. Blythe? October 1917? It was hardly blithe times. I can’t put a face to the name. Why is it that you want to know?”