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Will. I don’t like them.”
    William looked up, his fork in midair. He glanced around the tent, shook his head briefly at the staff’s effort with the ropes in the far corner. “Crowds? Surely it isn’t crowded today. Hamilton and Warren aren’t even here.”
    “In a general sense. Demonstrations and such.”
    William looked blank.
    “Any crowd-driven idea. Human slavery! Tulip mania! The war!”
    “Oh, no. I suppose not.” William rested his fork on the edge of the plate. “What made you think of it?”
    “The river today.”
    “Overstocked.”
    “Certainly. Did you mention it to the river keeper?”
    “I thought you had.”
    Laurie could not remember if he had or not. “I will,” he said quickly, confidently.
    “Good.”
    Laurie studied William. He couldn’t believe how old he looked, but then William would probably have said the same thing about him. He could recall William as a younger man, famous for his wit, throwing comments at a conversation like a hunter throwing spears. Laurie couldn’t remember where the “mighty” joke had come from, if it had had to do with banking, conversation, or angling. Maybe all of them. Suddenly he thought he might ask William what to do about the boy’s documentary; he would probably understand the problems. Laurie reached for his water, but his hand shook, and the glass, perspiring in the June heat, slipped out of his hand. The mighty William righted it before anyone else at the table noticed.
    Grateful, Laurie smiled. “How are the grandchildren?” he asked.
    Drying his hands with Laurie’s napkin—the settings were all askew—William beamed. “Oh, the devils!” They were coming to visit, all five of them, and he had no idea where he was going to put them.

Nine
    The next morning, Bethnal Green woke to a quiet dawn, a city going about its business, geese flying overhead, the fire department pigs snuffling as they moved to their pen in the Museum Gardens. A cold front had come in behind the warmer air and sent all hope of an early spring skittering away like the petals and feathers in the gutters. There were no angry mobs or fiery newspaper headlines. No outraged prime minister calling for an inquiry, no monarch full of compassion and remorse. The king was on a short holiday in Northumberland, actually, due back on a train sometime Saturday. The only evidence of the tragedy was the presence of two constables posted by the entrance to the shelter and the battered police barriers they stood behind. There was not even a list of the dead posted, as usually followed a raid.
    Overnight, some authority had made a decision: the accident would be kept secret. The large number of dead was difficult to hide, however, so after a few hours the authorities announced that the shelter had, in fact, taken a small, direct hit. The population of Bethnal Green, puzzled by the total absence of any bomb damage, remained unconvinced. Then it began to rain, the perfect climate for rumor: it was Fascist incitement, a Jewish panic, an Irishman holding the gate against the crowd. There’d been a land mine, a new German weapon, a gas leak.
    In the afternoon a crowd gathered at St. John’s. The people were hesitant about inquiring after friends and relatives but could not resist gathering where chance might deliver the news. Many were nervous and helpful while they waited but then collapsed or dissolved in fury when they learned the one they’d hoped for was dead. Some wandered inside to the church pews, and some sat in the drizzle on the front steps, the temperature difference between the two not significant enough to inspire religious devotion in those not already so inclined. Rev. McNeely worked tirelessly, silently, bringing blankets and handkerchiefs to those inside and out. He was sleepless and pale, poorly clothed and obviously cold, but he moved with such conviction, no one thought to slow him down.
    Ada sat on a corner of the porch, wrapped in a brown coat, rocking. Her