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Dr. Stapleton looked entirely discomfited. “Well, naturally. That is . . .”

“Goodbye, John,” Julia said, and stalked out with Kate following behind.

Neither of them said anything until they were safely in the truck.

Then Julia glanced sideways at Kate, her mouth twisting with delicate irony. “A navy surgeon in the South Seas?”

Kate grimaced. “It was the first thing that popped into my head. I just wanted something suitably remote.”

There was silence for a moment, as Kate maneuvered around a very large, extremely top-heavy farm cart.

Once they were past it, Julia said quietly, “Thank you.”

“We stand together, remember? Besides, you didn’t need me. You should have seen him sweat when you mentioned he might lose his manhood!”

Julia permitted herself a little smile. “I knew that would hit him where it hurts. He mentioned once that he hadn’t had measles. . . .”

“At least we know Gwen’s safe from him,” said Kate. “But this means you’re back to doing all the medical work on your own.”

Julia looked at Kate levelly. “Not entirely on my own,” she said. “Oh, don’t go all sentimental on me! You’re getting as bad as Emmie.”

Over the next three days, with Emmie on hand as nurse, Julia examined every adult and child in Hombleux, Esmery-Hallon, and Breuil, the three villages with which Gwen had had contact.

Julia delivered her report over a late dinner on Wednesday night. They’d kept dinner back for Alice, Nell, and Florence, who had been to the “movies” in Hombleux that night. With only seven left at Grécourt and the constant hiss of aerial battle overhead, the Unit was clinging together as much as possible, reduced to its core.

“What’s the diagnosis?” asked Kate, trying to sound jaunty, even though she was really, truly, desperately afraid. A measles epidemic could decimate their villages.

“Eight cases of pneumonia, two of tetanus, and more syphilis than is socially acceptable,” said Julia, spearing a braised turnip from the serving platter. “But no measles.”

“Thank goodness,” said Kate, with feeling.

“Don’t break out the fatted calf yet,” said Julia. “There’s still time. We’ll know in about two weeks if Gwen spread it to anyone. Fortunately, there was a brutal epidemic last spring—anyone who was going to get it got it. It’s only the children under the age of one we have to worry about. And the troops, but they have their own doctors. They’re not our concern.”

“Speaking of the troops . . .” Alice poked at her stew, trying to sound casual and failing utterly. “The Esmery-Hallon boys couldn’t join us tonight—we got word they’d received marching orders.”

The room suddenly seemed a little darker, the shadows cast by the lamps more ominous. The tension in the room was palpable, like the heavy air before an electric storm.

Defiantly, Nell shoveled more stew onto her plate, as though to show she wasn’t the least bit concerned. “Colonel Hayes came over midway through the movie and told us that the big drive is starting tonight. It didn’t stop him watching the rest of the film, so I can’t imagine there’s anything much to worry about.”

“Well, if he has time to go to the pictures . . .” began Kate, but the rest of her words were lost as an enormous blast shook the walls of the new house. Nell dropped the serving spoon, splattering stew across the tablecloth.

Anne stared wildly around the room. “What was that?”

“It didn’t—it didn’t sound like a bomb,” said Emmie, wide-eyed.

“Whatever it was, it’s ruined Mrs. Barrett’s linen tablecloth.” Nell scrubbed awkwardly at the tablecloth with her napkin. “Oh, bother. Does anyone have some salt before it stains?”

“Try some water first,” suggested Florence.

Alice had gone an unfortunate greenish color. “My m-mother swears by a mix of b-baking powder, talcum, and cornstarch.”

Kate looked down from the head of the table at the other six remaining members of the Unit. Nell was scrubbing maniacally at the tablecloth. Emmie was clinging to her water goblet for dear life. Even Florence, imperturbable Florence, had cocked her head, listening, and her usually placid face had a strained look about it. They were all scared out of their wits, but determined to pretend, to their last breath, that they were quite all right and it was just a bit of bother, with nothing more to worry about than a stained tablecloth. And Kate was just as bad as the rest of them.

What’s wrong with us? Kate wondered. Maybe, she thought madly, it would be easier if they just admitted they were all scared out of their wits, instead of all desperately pretending to be fascinated by the best method for getting grease out of linen.

Another boom, as loud as the last, made them all dive for the ground.

“At least it’s not bombs,” said Anne when the vibrations subsided. Her teeth were chattering nearly as loudly as the plates on the table. “I do hate when they try to drop bombs on us.”