Soot smudged Aleida’s cheek. “The stretcher party hasn’t arrived.”
“How far is the first aid post?” Hugh’s voice crackled like the flames behind him, and he coughed.
“In the same building as the ARP post.” Aleida frowned at him. “Do you need to go there too?”
A groan rose. “Not yet. But I can’t record with my voice like this, and I need to get out of the smoke before I do indeed need a doctor.”
A fierce red glow throbbed to the east, and embers danced in the air, taunting him. This felt like one of the biggest raids yet. How could he miss this story?
“Collie?” Young picked up the microphone and headphones from where Hugh had abandoned them. “We can transport the injured in the van.”
“Excellent idea. I’ll go with you.” But he’d miss what might be the story of the year.
“Hugh?” Aleida touched his arm. “You want the story, yes?”
He grimaced. “I can’t record.”
“But you can write.” She swung her gas mask container in front of her and pulled out the rubber contraption. “This will filter out smoke.”
Like his Pneumostat, marking him as different, defective. “I refuse to walk around in that thing like a—”
“Hugh.” Her voice came out insistent. “I am not your mother. I will never treat you like an invalid, but I won’t pussyfoot around you either. I only want to protect you—and to help you write your story.”
His own words came back to him in her beautiful voice, and he fell over the precipice into love, loving her strength and her weakness, her stubbornness and her bending.
Weak with it all, he bent. He took her gas mask and strapped it on.
Dark rubber fumes filled his nostrils, and the rush of hisown breath filled his ears. Unlike the Pneumostat, the gas mask covered his eyes too.
Through the clear screen, he could see the van drive away with the injured men, could see the firemen train dribbling hoses on the raging flames.
And he could see Aleida smiling at him. “Write your story. You’re due to join Mr. Peabody on the roof.”
He shook his head. “I’m not leaving you.”
In the morning, the sun rose, obscured by whirling black clouds of smoke. But sunlight wasn’t necessary in the glowing red sky.
London burned.
All Hugh wanted was to wipe the grime from Aleida’s face and to soothe the concern under that grime. Then he wanted to sleep for days.
As he walked Aleida home, they left the worst of the devastation behind, even as ash and bits of burnt paper drifted down around them.
Throughout the night, Hugh and Aleida had fought fires. Dug men and women from ruins, some living, some not. Helped survivors to the rest center.
Throughout the night, words had billowed in Hugh’s mind like that smoke. He’d captured many in his notebook, but the rest would have to wait.
They crossed the street leading to Aleida’s flat. She stumbled on the curb, and he caught her arm. She lifted that grimy, exhausted, beautiful face to him, with a tiny smile like none he’d seen from her.
Throughout the night, something had shifted between them, and that was what he wanted to capture most of all.
23
BUNTINGFORD
SATURDAY, JANUARY4, 1941
Servants cleared dishes in the breakfast room at Collingwood Manor. Across from Aleida, Hugh looked handsome in brown tweeds, the color bringing out the richness of his hair. As soon as he excused himself, they could go on their visits.
