“We have to fly that low to get the tanks. It’s a specialty of my new squadron, you see. We approach at a height of about fifteen feet”—he swept his hand in a slow horizontal line over the table—“fire the gun, which is a special anti-tank cannon, and then climb as fast as we can.” His hand rose up, finished the demonstration, and came to rest on the table. “If we fire too soon, we don’t penetrate the tank. If we fire too late, we fly into it. I’m sorry,” he said with a forced laugh. “This is a most unsuitable topic of conversation.”

“Of course it’s not,” I said. “I expect you think of that cannon all the time.”

“Yes,” he said, his face clearing. “Yes, I do.”

I met his eyes. I remembered from before how dark blue they were and how open and watchful. I understood it now. He couldn’t afford to miss anything.

“I’m glad.” I smiled. “It will keep you safe.”

Another moment of silence passed. I didn’t want to be anywhere else but there, with him.

“James, you’re going to think I’m strange, but sometimes I miss that air raid.”

“I’ve missed it dreadfully.”

I looked up, struck. He was smiling but his eyes were very serious.

“I remember everything we talked about that night, and the next day.” He shook his head. “I left you crying, and went off to my train to Luxor—unforgivable. I kicked myself all the way down the Nile, wishing I’d said something to you. Never mind what you thought of me. I should have told you how lovely you were. I wanted to take you in my arms.”

And I would have stopped thinking and simply been held, by the man who had spoken to me in the dark. Yes, of course. That should have happened.

“Yvette.” He leaned forward. “Is it too late?”

One simple word. All I had to do was get it out. I found I couldn’t stop blinking. My eyes were wet but I wasn’t remotely weeping.

“No,” I managed to say.

He took hold of my hand. His hand was warm, dry, sunbrowned except for splashes of pink over the knuckles.

“What is that?” I said, stroking his knuckles with my other hand.

“Glycol burns. But they’re old.”

I remembered his touches, his fingers linked with mine, then cupping my elbow in a gentle clasp. Now he was cradling my hand tenderly. I put my free hand over the back of his, so that I was holding him as well as being held. His palm and fingers were rough, his hands square, strong. They had not the Olympian beauty of Sébastien’s hands. But Sébastien’s hands were always so languid. There was no feeling in them. There was no feeling in Sébastien, beyond certain lionlike urges.