She hid in another doorway as the planes flew overhead, letting go of their bombs as they neared Oxford Street. Her shoulders and arms ached from carrying the valise. How could such a small thing seem to weigh so much? But she couldn’t stop. Not now. Not after everything that had happened. One more loss would be insurmountable, the largest and final hole in her cup of luck.
Her ears rang from the cacophony of destruction raining down around her, the coppery tang of blood filling her mouth from biting her lip to keep it from trembling. A stray bomb could explode on top of her and her precious cargo regardless of its intended target, the erratic hands of fate never quite sure where to land.
Avoiding wardens and anyone else who would veer her off course, she continued to hurry forward until she reached Davies Street and the square of beautiful Georgian terrace houses now sheathed in black, the windows darkened like sleeping eyes. She knew the house, had been inside it even. Knew that the basement was being used as a private bomb shelter, one complete with electricity and stocked with food and soft mattresses and blankets. But that was not why she was there. She wouldn’t be staying.
The flashing white undersides of an air warden’s gloves beckoned two women dressed as if they’d just been dragged from a party; they stumbled toward him as he guided them to a public shelter. Holding the valise closer, she pressed herself against the wrought iron fence of the house, ducking her face to hide its paleness. When the three disappeared, she moved cautiously along the fence, then unlatched the gate. She carefully took the steps down to the lower level, then turned the doorknob, not thinking until she did so of what she’d do if it was locked.
The door opened to an unoccupied room, filled only with mattresses and cushions piled against the windows and walls, the flickering firelight from outside showing her a closed door across the room. Memorizing her path, she shut the door behind her, enveloping herself in complete darkness. Soft, murmuring voices came from behind the door opposite as she approached. She stopped in front of it and raised her hand to knock, then paused to mouth an old prayer she remembered from childhood to a God she no longer thought listened. “Amen,” she whispered to the dark when she was finished, then brought her knuckles down sharply against the wood.
The voices stopped, and she held her breath as footsteps approached.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice, clear and refined. English.
Her knees almost buckled with relief. “It’s me. Please open the door.”
The door was jerked open, allowing her to see inside the small room with the tidy cots around the perimeter, a small crystal lamp sparkling from the polished surface of a round table with cabriole legs. If she hadn’t been so exhausted, she might have laughed at the absurdity of crystal and fine furniture in such a place, at such a time, when the world above was being smothered with ashes and blood. The person she’d been might have been amused. But she wasn’t that person anymore.
The woman looked into the darkened room as if expecting to see two other people seeking refuge.
“I’m alone. There’s no one else.”
A look of understanding and grief crossed the woman’s face before she nodded briefly and straightened her shoulders. “You’re hurt,” the woman said, her fine skin glowing like alabaster in the lamplight. Reaching out manicured hands with scarlet nails, she said, “Come in. Quickly. We have a doctor.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I have to go.” For the first time, she relaxed her hold on the valise. She set it down and picked up the baby, his soft body stirring sleepily in her arms. Pressing her lips against the smooth forehead, she smelled deeply, the stench of the torn night erased by the sweet scent of new life. She lifted her head, then handed him over before she could change her mind and be the ruin of them all.
The woman’s pale eyes widened with surprise, then showed understanding, as she accepted the child, pressing him against her chest, an unasked question dancing in the air between them.
“I’ve got to go back. He . . .” Her arm gestured aimlessly. “It might not be too late. . . .” Despair escaped from her chest and filled her mouth.
“But you can’t leave. Not now. There’s a raid. . . .”
“I have to. There’s no one else.” A sob caught in her throat. “I have to try.” Her eyes moved to the squirming bundle, but she dragged them away.
The woman hadn’t reacted to the news except for a quick intake of breath. With studied composure, she said, “But you’re hurt. Surely you can wait five more minutes.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’ve already stayed too long.” She took a step back to emphasize her words. “I think they might be looking for me.”
“All the more reason you should stay here. We can keep you safe. We can help you get the proper papers. . . .”
As if the woman hadn’t spoken, she said, “You’ll take care of the baby?”
“Of course. But—”
“Good.”
The woman looked so lovely standing there with the light prisms sparkling against the wall behind her as she held the baby. She’d done the right thing, coming here. “Be safe,” the woman said. “But this won’t be good-bye. We’ll see each other again, when this is all over.”
“I hope so,” she said, allowing her eyes to rest on the pale moon of the baby’s cheek for just a flicker. She took another step backward. “When this is all over.” She turned and let herself out of the second door and back into the wounded night.
She passed through the gate and hurried toward the street corner and paused, getting her bearings, knowing only that she had to keep running. Just for a moment, she
