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“And by they, you mean your British friends?” asked Kate, and Emmie could practically hear all the things she wasn’t saying.

“Well, they are the ones who would know,” said Emmie.

They waited in silence in the dark for a few moments, listening. When no further bombs fell, Mrs. Barrett said, in bracing tones, “I think we can risk one lamp.”

A moment later, a match was struck. Mrs. Barrett fiddled with the wick. A faint flame flickered and caught, sending a rosy glow throughout the room.

“Welcome home,” said Nell, from her spot on the rug with her legs curled under her. “Aren’t you glad you’re back?”

“Yes. Surprisingly,” said Kate, draining the rest of her soup. “Bombs and all.”

Sitting on the piano bench, looking around the room in the dim light, at all the familiar faces brought into high relief by the interplay of light and shadow, Emmie thought how very odd it was what one was able to become accustomed to. Being bombarded had become merely a minor irritation, like midges at a picnic. They’d become too used to it to take it seriously.

Would she have ever thought that possible, back in New York?

She’d changed, she realized. They’d all changed.

Kate set aside her soup cup. “We weren’t at all sure we’d be able to get back. My pass was all right, but Julia’s had expired, and I wasn’t sure I could manage all three crates on my own—and after what we’d paid for them, I certainly wasn’t going to leave them!”

“I’m glad to know you only brought me along for the chickens,” said Julia bitingly.

“So what did you do?” asked Anne, perched on the edge of a bench made by her own students. Anne was terribly proud of that bench, the product of her woodworking classes. She sat on it at every opportunity.

“Shenanigans,” said Julia. “Skullduggery. Sleight of hand. Our Kate here turns out to be an accomplished charlatan.”

“That’s all nonsense,” scoffed Kate, but Emmie could tell she was pleased. “When the man came for our passes, I might just have happened to drop one of the crates.”

“Just happened? The thing practically exploded,” retorted Julia. “There were feathers everywhere, people squawking, hens squawking—”

“Poor things!” Florence patted a chicken crate. “Were they all right?”

“Were they all right?” Emmie had never heard Julia so voluble. “They were having a grand time. They got into someone’s lunch and scattered war bread everywhere. The guard tried to make a run for it and tripped over a piece of broken crate. After that, no one was going to bother with a little thing like passes.”

“We did get them all back in the crate,” Kate reassured Florence. “And strung the broken bits back together with twine. I never meant for the box to break.”

“It was a good thing it did,” said Julia cynically. “Or they’d have had me off the train, chickens or no chickens.”

“Well, I know some people who’ll be very grateful for these,” said Florence. “One woman in Offoy told me that she desperately needs another chicken, because she has only one, and it’s pining for company.”

“Do chickens pine?” asked Kate skeptically.

“Why shouldn’t they? It’s miserable being left all alone,” said Alice, with a little too much feeling.

“You could send the poor hen one of Emmie’s roosters,” said Nell mischievously. “A barnyard romance might take its mind off things. . . .”

“It works for some,” said Gwen loftily, pointedly looking at Emmie and Nell, both of whom she considered sunk beneath reproach. Florence was too busy with the chickens to realize she was being included in the ranks of the fallen.

“Has the rooster a mustache?” inquired Julia blandly. “A dubious mustache, perhaps?”

“I’m sure the roosters will be delighted by the company—as are we.” Mrs. Barrett stepped in, smoothly turning the conversation. “I had meant you to have a longer rest, but I’m beyond glad to have you both back. Pass or no pass. The number of people we’ve had to turn away from the dispensary is nothing short of heartbreaking. Dr. Stapleton has been doing his best, but with his own work at the Red Cross hospital . . .”

Kate looked at Julia, and some sort of unspoken message passed between them.

“About that,” said Kate innocently. “Now that Dr. Pruyn is back, wouldn’t it be best to release Dr. Stapleton to his regular duties? We wouldn’t want to keep him from his war work.”

“But we’ve still only one doctor—with no insult to your abilities, Dr. Pruyn,” said Mrs. Barrett, smiling at Julia. “I don’t want you collapsing from overwork.”

“I won’t,” said Julia. She waved a hand imperiously in Gwen’s general direction. “Miss Mills can assist me. She’s more than capable.”