Francis laughed mirthlessly and angled his face away.

“Francis, where were you? Why did you do it?”

He shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the post.

“Frannie, I’m sorry. I wish you’d just talk to me. I wish that there’s something that I could do.”

“Sorry?” said Francis.

His eyes flashed open then. Harry could see the red veins in the whites of Francis’s eyes.

“You’re sorry?”

In truth, beyond his pity, Harry wasn’t quite sure what he was sorry for. He wasn’t certain what act he was meant to repent. But the look that Francis gave him made him feel as if he had betrayed him utterly. Francis stared at him. His gaze was impossible to hold. Harry turned and walked away.

Chapter Forty-Seven: Edie

Chapter Forty-Seven

Edie

Ypres, September 1921

EDIE WATCHES THE MAN HOVERING IN THE STREET DOWN BELOW, RETRACING his steps backward and forward along the frontage of the hotel. When he looks up, his hat tilting, his eyes obviously scanning the floors above, she knows who it is and why he is here, and she steps back from her window.

She had known that there was something more. Something had flashed across Michael Dillon’s face when Harry said Francis’s name. When she had gone back to buy the Saint Christopher, she had half expected him to tell her. It was part of the reason she had gone back. But then she had asked Dillon how the ribbon came into his possession, and he had just smiled wistfully and told her that things fell into his hands. She knows now, though, that there is more to all of this. That he knows more.

Edie steps to the curtains and glances down again. He is still there, pushing open the door of the hotel now. She sits down on the bed and readies herself for the noise of his feet on the stairs, and then his knock on her door, but why does that cause her heart to race?

She makes herself walk to the washbasin and turn her hands in the cold water. The pale woman in the mirror looks her in the eye, straightens her dress, and smooths her hair. Edie tells herself that she is ready for this, that she will cope with whatever comes next. She can do this.

His hand is at the door quicker than she anticipates. She has hardly had time to compose herself before he is standing in the doorway, inviting himself in, his eyes all around her room. She is not sure whether she feels more affronted or frightened, and half wishes that she had turned the key in the lock, so that she might be able to hold her breath, so that she might have been given a choice about what comes next.

“Mr. Dillon?”