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wasn’t there with her. The body that had wrapped itself around her every day for more than seven hundred years.
    Brigit pressed her palms tight against her temples. She gulped hard,
and even drew a few breaths. The body’s memory allowed the act to be calming. She wiped her hands on her skirt and was perfectly steady when she headed back to the main room, where Mors had called on them to gather.
    He’d thoughtfully filled a thermos with blood from the girl at the train station, and now poured it out into five goblets. He grinned as they all held them aloft, watching him.
    â€œTo the mission,” he announced, with a solemnity that startled them.
    â€œTo the mission,” they repeated, and drank. It wasn’t very tasty, but it was still warm, and filling. Better than trying to sleep on an empty stomach.
    â€œA little bit cheerier, all of you! Come on, this isn’t so bad. We’ll be home soon.” He looked steadily at Brigit and Cleland as he said it, his confident grin large.
    They nodded, even smiled, but carefully avoided one another’s eyes.

Chapter 3
    London. November 1938.
    Everyone was being so kind. Suggestions for theater outings and concerts and the late-night museum shows and all the things he and Brigit partook of so readily flowed in every evening. Eamon was touched and grateful, but, for now, preferred to be alone. Padraic felt the same. Eamon, feeling his responsibility as one much older, had asked Padraic if he maybe wanted to attend a scientific lecture at King’s College. Padraic and Cleland liked that sort of thing. He’d smiled at Eamon’s invitation, the first smile he’d managed in a week.
    â€œYou wouldn’t stay awake ten minutes.” He grinned.
    â€œOh, I don’t know. I could probably manage a good half hour for science. One of your strange numbers things, though, that would put me right out.”
    â€œAnd they say musicians have an affinity for mathematics.”
    â€œNot this musician.”
    Padraic smiled again, and nodded.
    â€œThanks, Eamon. Another time, maybe?”
    Eamon nodded, too, and left Padraic to his studies.
    He prowled disconsolately around the West End. There was a lot of nervousness in the air. Londoners felt sure war was coming, and very likely soon. They were almost forcibly enjoying themselves, both to stave off apprehension and to laugh as much as possible before humor was
sucked out of the world again. Eamon smiled. He liked their determination, their stoutness. It was the sort of thing that made him proud to be British.
    The theaters held no allurement for him tonight. He couldn’t imagine going to a show without Brigit. They’d been going to theater and concerts together for hundreds of years. How could he sit in a theater, how could he concentrate on a show, never mind try to enjoy it, without his Brigit by his side? Unthinkable.
    Instead, he walked slowly up Charing Cross Road, vaguely wondering if there was a letter waiting in the post office box they’d gone to such pains to secure. Eamon knew it was too soon for anything to have arrived. He preferred to enjoy the anticipation than experience the flatness of disappointment. Otonia had also devised a series of codes they could use for communicating via telegram, but this was only to be resorted to in an emergency. Picking up telegrams required visiting the office in person. She was sure they would eventually be able to steal their own telegraph machine, but until then, all steps must be taken to avoid suspicion.
    Two businessmen walked past Eamon, heading for a club.
    â€œSay what you will about Hitler, you can’t deny he’s a man of action. Imagine what the stock market would look like if Chamberlain could manage that much action.”
    â€œShaky, I would think. I prefer steadiness in the market myself. I think I’ll be putting my money into shipbuilding. Mark my words, it will yield a fortune.”
    â€œI would