I turned off the light before I opened the window. The garden was white and dead and the high, distant moon cast long gray shadows across the snow. He looked no more solid than any other shadow as he slid over the balcony rail, but the arms that drew me to him were hard and real, and the lips that closed over mine were not cold for long.

Five

IF MY EARS WERE BURNING THAT NIGHT I didn’t notice. Some such omen ought to have occurred: people were talking about me again.

“Stop sniveling. Why the devil do you always snivel when I talk to you?”

“You are so cruel to me. It was not my fault. I didn’t know he was going to do it.”

“I told you to telephone me if she turned up.”

“I did. It was only this morning that she—”

“And Schmidt too. That tears it. They know. If they weren’t sure before, that moronic young thug has confirmed their suspicions. Where is he?”

Guiltily, as if the distant speaker could see her, she glanced at the closed bedroom door. “He is here.”

“Keep him there. Keep him quiet.”

“Yes, I will. Liebchen, no harm has been done. They were not injured—”

“And a damned good thing, too.” After a long pause the voice said thoughtfully, “There may be a way of turning this to our advantage after all. Now listen to me.”

“Yes, I will. I will do exactly as you say.”

“Then this is what you must do….”

The smeared tears died on her cheeks as she listened, intent on every word. Freddy was a diversion, pleasant enough in his way; but the voice came from a world far beyond anything Freddy could offer—a world that would one day be hers, if she followed orders faithfully.

For some reason known only unto the great god Freud, I dreamed about babies. They were howling their little heads off because someone had stuck them upright in a snowbank, all in a row like ducks in a shooting gallery. One of them went on yelling after I woke up. It took me a minute to realize that it wasn’t a baby, but Caesar, whining pathetically outside the bedroom door.

Sunlight slanting across the floor told me that Caesar’s complaint was justified. It was long past his usual hour for R and R (relief and refreshment).

John was still asleep. Only the tip of his nose and a mop of ruffled fair hair showed over the blanket. I pulled it down with a careful fingertip, exposing his face. He murmured low in his throat, but didn’t waken. No wonder he was tired. He had had a hard day—and night.

Propped on one elbow, I studied his sleeping face curiously. He was back to blond, sans mustache, beard, or other distractions—the original, the one and only…whatever his name might be. What’s in a name, after all? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet—and its thorns would prick as painfully.