Page 44 of The Unknown Birds

“You know, the first time we met, I was certain you hated me,” she teased.

“Impossible!”

“It’s true. You were very intimidating. All gruff and…” She wanted to say handsome, but the word might thrust an awkward tension into the midst of their newly restored camaraderie.

“What?”

“Grizzled and glowering and battle worn, I suppose. When the captain ordered you to help me with my gun, I thought you wanted to snap me right in two.”

“No,” he said, soft and serious. “It was only that you were so very fresh-faced and unbroken, and I knew what was bound to happen.” She felt like there was some deeper meaning, but he went on without stopping. “It was war, after all.”

“Well don’t worry. I didn’t take it personally. Much.” She let go of his arm to walk on ahead of him, but he caught up and stopped her.

“You can’t take it personally now I’ve admitted I’m glad we met. I would turn the question back on you—do you regret it? But obviously your answer would be the same as mine,” he teased.

“Undoubtedly,” she replied, never a word more true. Even had she received news that Charles was safe in Spain, she’d not have given up her place with the Surreys for all the world. From the moment she’d met Rook and Tom and the rest, she’d been one of them, well and truly stuck in until the bitter end.

“Here we are,” he said, their too-brief journey over as they arrived at her flat.

“Here we are,” she echoed. “Would you like to come in?”

He grew suddenly nervous, studying the ground. “I don’t make a habit of inviting myself for tea.”

“You didn’t. I’m inviting you. Rook, it’s only me… and my mother and Frau Wintter,” she added with a grin.

“When you put it that way,” he agreed, following her inside, clinging to the hand she offered like it was a lifeline leading him into battle for the very first time.

As Ash expected, the ladies were seated at the table already drinking tea.

“Charley—company?” her mother asked, scanning Ashley’s plain brown skirt and worn old cardigan with a disapproving little frown. A shame you aren’t wearing something nicer, her face seemed to say. But Rook had most often seen Ash in days-old khaki, so maybe the brown was fitting just this once.

“Alex Rook, Clara Ashley—my mother—and Frau Wintter—my Oma.”

“Please. Adele,” Frau Wintter said.

“Pleasure, ladies.” Rook clasped each of their hands in turn.

Not having received male attention in years, both women, predictably, swooned.

Ash set out another plate and poured him a cup of tea, plain, the way he drank it in the war. When she sat, her mother cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows to get Ashley’s attention, then pointed to her cheek. Confused, Ash dabbed it with a napkin and discovered dirt smeared across her face.

Rook grinned.

“You should have told me,” she whispered.

“Honest, I didn’t notice until now. You look… right… with a grimy face.”

Her mother balked at that but didn’t pursue it. “Are you a teacher at the school?” she asked him instead.

“No,” Ash jumped in, knowing the questions her mother wanted to ask: Are you single? and What are your intentions? “He’s at Temple Church,” she said, deliberately vague, hoping her mother would assume he was a rector, life dedicated to God, and leave it alone.

“Temple? How impressive. Should we call you Reverend?”

Rook didn’t laugh, but his eyes were dancing when he answered. “No, I’m afraid not. I help out quite a lot with the choir boys, but mostly I play the organ for services.”

“Oh, lovely.”

“Do you compose music as well?” Frau Wintter asked. “My husband was an admirer of Bach.”