Inwardly, she laughed at her herself, and the vague daydream she couldn’t hold onto for long. Even her fantasies felt tame.

“No, I certainly wouldn’t mind,” Sophie declared. “I’d live like Marlene Dietrich or Joan Fontaine. Neithe

r of them was born in America, you know.” Sophie was a devout reader of Picturegoer—something else their mother disapproved of, and would throw into the fire if she caught sight of it.

“I doubt most Americans live like movie stars.”

“They live better than us.” There was no bitterness to Sophie’s voice, only plain statement of fact. She sighed, a soft gust of sound in the darkness. “I’m so bloody tired of this war. It’s gone on and on and on, and it’s made a ruin of the best years of our lives.”

Lily stayed silent, because there was nothing to say. She was tired of the war; everyone was tired of the war—of the bombed-out buildings, the grimy streets, the lack of food or fun or frippery, the dispiriting news on the wireless day after day after day, the fear and death that hounded everyone, kept at their heels. Of course they were all tired of the bloody war.

“And it’s not even as if I’ve been able to do anything exciting,” Sophie continued. “I know there are girls doing properly exciting, important things, not just taking dictation and typing letters for some pompous fool, while that old trout Mrs. Simmons polices our every move. It’s dire.”

“All war work is important,” Lily protested quietly. For eight hours a day, all she did was type letters, too, but she believed they were important. Not essential to the war effort, perhaps, but a ministry of compassion to those the war had sacrificed. She had to believe that, otherwise what was the point? “Anyway, it might be over soon,” she added, without any real optimism.

“Yes, thanks to the GIs.” Lily heard the creak of springs and the slide of covers as Sophie turned over on her side. “What do you think they’re like?”

Lily knew Sophie meant the two soldiers coming to dinner, rather than the entire American army. “I have no idea.” She pictured two bland, blank-faced soldiers, dummies rather than men, and then she pictured Gregory Peck or Gary Cooper in uniform. Neither were real.

“I hope they’re handsome.”

“They probably will be.” Most American soldiers seemed handsome, with their bright uniforms, their faces radiating health and good eating, and most of life spent away from bombs and rationing and war.

“Good,” Sophie said with satisfaction, and snuggled down under the covers. “I just might snag myself a proper American boyfriend, then.”

“Then maybe you’ll smoke better cigarettes than those awful Spanish Shawls,” Lily said as she closed her eyes, more than ready for sleep. She had an early start tomorrow—as she always did—having to take the Tube to the Admiralty; it was unreliable on the best of days, and often she ended up having to hope for a bus, or simply walk.

“Yes.” Sophie laughed softly to herself, seeming altogether pleased by the notion. “Yes, then I won’t have to smoke those wretched Shawls.”

Chapter Three

On Sunday morning, the little house on Holmside Road was dusted and polished to a determined if well-worn shine, and the kitchen was full of tantalizing smells of braised ox cheek and apple crumble.

Carol was a briskly efficient mistress of the kitchen; she had the potatoes peeled, the beef in the oven and the crumble cooling on the kitchen table before they headed out to the morning service at Holy Trinity Church, where she’d gone every Sunday of her married life. Sophie and Lily went with her, as did their father, Richard; church attendance had never been a matter of negotiation in the Mather family.

Lily didn’t mind the service; she enjoyed the hymns, as well as the sense of something sacred, seeming closer there, yet still out of reach, a hope of something greater than anything she’d experienced so far. She also appreciated an hour of quiet.

Sophie didn’t mind it, either, as far as Lily could tell, restless though she tended to be. Church provided an opportunity to dress up and, more importantly, to flirt, at least with one’s eyes, and Sophie liked to flirt with every possible man. Not that there were any eligible ones in the dim and dusty nave of the church. Still, she’d give the balding, middle-aged shopkeeper with his hat in his lap a coy smile and then look away, causing him to blush and look confused. Lily watched it all with a bemused resignation; she knew it was just entertainment for Sophie, rather than anything meaningful or malicious.

That morning, however, there were far better prospects for flirtation. Two GIs were crammed into the back pew, looking far too big for it, their broad shoulders brushing, their smart army-green uniforms standing out amidst the sober Sunday coats and dark suits and dresses.

“Our Americans,” Sophie whispered with a meaningful nod.

Lily did not reply. She did, however, slide a quick, questioning glance at the two men as she reached for her hymnal; the servicemen were tall, one broader and blonder than the other, the epitome of what Lily thought of when it came to American GIs, with his wheat-colored hair, blue eyes, and quick, cocky grin as he caught her eye.

She looked away quickly, blushing. She hadn’t been able to see much of the other man, only that he was a bit shorter and darker, but still impressive and somehow alarming in his physique.

All through the service, Lily felt a burning awareness of the two men that was quite at odds with her usual, sensible self. Sophie felt the same, she knew, although perhaps with a bit more insouciance; she looked towards the back pew enough times to make their mother give her a quelling look, which Sophie ignored. Lily kept her eyes firmly to the front of the church, and listened to the sermon with more earnest attention than she had in some time.

At the end of the service, there was a shuffle of feet and hymnals as people began to move towards the doors; the weather was icy, even inside the church, and no one was minded to stay to chat. The two American servicemen stood by their pew, caps in hands, seeming unsure where to go or who to look for.

Carol approached them with her usual firm manner. “How lovely to meet you both. I’m so glad the vicar invited you along. I’m Mrs. Mather, and you’re coming home with us for Sunday dinner.”

Lily hung back, watching as the blond one smiled readily, shaking her mother’s hand, and then her father’s, and then Sophie’s. He came to her last, his smile as wide for her as it had been for everyone else. Too shy to do more than stammer some sort of hello, she felt his strong hand close around her fingers as he said his name—Second Lieutenant Tom Reese—and then the second man was being introduced.

“This is Staff Sergeant Matthew Lawson, but he’s a quiet one,” Tom said with a laugh. “You won’t get much out of him, I’m afraid.”

Everyone shook hands all over again, while Lily gave Matthew Lawson a quick, considering look. His smile was just as ready as Tom’s, but seemed contained somehow, the look in his dark eyes strangely watchful. His hand was cool as he touched Lily’s briefly, and then they were all heading outside into the wintry day, the sky hanging grayly over the city like a damp shroud, the air icy and still.

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