All Clear

“A … another … lifetime?” she stammered.

“Yes,” he said, and smiled that heartbreakingly crooked smile. “Far in the distant past. I was a king in Babylon, and you were a Christian slave.”

And that was a poem by William Ernest Henley. He’s quoting poetry, not talking about time travel, she thought. Thank goodness. She was so relieved she laughed.

“I’m deadly serious,” he said. “Our souls have been destined to be together throughout history. I told you, we were Tristan and Isolde.” He moved in closer. “We were Pelleas and Melisande, Heloise and Abelard.” He leaned toward her. “Catherine and Heathcliff—”

“Catherine and Heathcliff are not historical figures, and there weren’t any Christian slaves in Babylon,” she said, slipping neatly away from him. “It was B.C., not A.D.”

“There, you see,” he said, pointing delightedly at her. “What you did just then, that’s exactly it! That’s what—”

“Norton!” a voice called from the corridor. “Kent!”

And there’s Fairchild, she thought wryly, when I no longer need to be rescued. She hadn’t met him on an upcoming assignment, or on any assignment. He was only flirting—and he was so good at it she was almost sorry she’d asked Fairchild to come drag her away.

Though it was probably just as well. Stephen was entirely too charming, and it was entirely too easy to forget that she was a hundred years too old for him, that they were even more star-crossed than the lovers he’d named. If he’d been from 2060 instead of 1944—

“Kent!” Fairchild called again. “Mary!”

“I’d best go see what’s wanted,” she said, and started for the door, but Fairchild had already flung it open.

“Oh, good, there you are. You’re wanted on the telephone. It’s the hospital. You can take it in the—oh, my goodness!” she shouted, and, astonishingly, shot past Mary and launched herself at Stephen. “Stephen!” she cried, flinging her arms about his neck. “What are you doing here?”

“Bits and Pieces! Good God!” he said, hugging her and then holding her at arm’s length to look at her. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

“This is my FANY unit,” Fairchild said. “And I’m not Bits and Pieces. I’m Lieutenant Fairchild.” She saluted smartly. “I drive an ambulance.”

“An ambulance?” he said. “You can’t possibly. You’re not old enough.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I am. My birthday was last week, wasn’t it, Kent?” she said, looking over at Mary. “Kent, this is Stephen Lang, the pilot I told you about.”

The person Fairchild had been in love with since she was six, the one she’d said was in love with her as well, only he didn’t know it yet. Oh, God.

“Our families live next to each other in Surrey,” Fairchild said happily. “We’ve known each other since we were infants.”

“Since you were an infant,” Stephen said, smiling fondly at her. “The last time I saw you, you were in pigtails.”

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” Fairchild said. “I thought you were stationed at Tangmere. Mother said—”

“I was, and then at Hendon,” he said, looking at Mary. “But I’ve just been transferred to Biggin Hill.”

“Biggin Hill? What good news! That means you’ll be only a few miles away.”

And squarely in the heart of Bomb Alley. It was already the most-hit airfield, and when Intelligence’s misinformation made the rockets begin to fall short, it would be even more dangerous. As if tipping V-1s wasn’t dangerous enough.

“How lovely!” Fairchild was saying. “How did you find out I was here? Did Mother write to you?”

“No,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I had no idea you were here. I came to see Lieutenant Kent.”

“Lieutenant Kent? I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“I drove him to a meeting in London last month after Talbot wrenched her knee. The Major asked me to substitute. But I had no idea you knew him,” Mary said, thinking, Please believe me.

“And I had no idea you knew my little sister,” he said.

“I’m not your sister,” Fairchild said. “And I’m not an infant. I told you, I’m nineteen. I’m all grown up.”

“You’ll always be sweet little Bits and Pieces to me.” He tousled her hair and smiled at Mary. “I hope you girls are taking good care of this youngster.”

Oh, worse and worse. “She doesn’t need taking care of,” Mary said. “She’s the best driver in our unit.”

“Oh, no, she’s not. You are,” he said. “That’s one of the things I came to tell you. Do you remember when I told you to turn down Tottenham Court Road on our way to Whitehall, and you turned the wrong way? Well, it was fortunate you did. A V-1 smashed down in the middle of it not five minutes later.”

He turned to Fairchild. “She saved my life.” He smiled at Mary. “I told you our meeting was destiny.”

“Destiny?” Fairchild said, looking stricken.

“Abso—”

“Absolutely not,” Mary cut in before he could ruin things even more completely, “and I fail to see how making a wrong turn constitutes expert driving. And the reason we met was because I couldn’t tell a flying bomb from a motorcycle.”