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The words surprised her. His face in profile revealed little, but she thought the fire had affected him, changed him in some way. It was loss he described.

He recovered his usual easy manner and went on. “Not long after I arrived, there was a tremendous blast. The roof collapsed, and the fire exploded heavenward in a great ball. There was no stopping it after that. Everyone knew the palace was gone.”

“What was the mood of the crowd?”

“Some were glad of it, but most were sobered. London is stone and brick. It’s solid and real.” He paused. “A man’s city is not supposed to go up in flame and smoke.”

She closed up her notebook and simply watched him. It was plain that the ruins held some personal meaning for him. “What happened next?” she asked.

He turned back to her with a rueful laugh, as if he’d been the object of a joke.

“What?”

“With the palace gone, the call came to save the hall next door. I answered. I joined a crew manning pumps on a fire engine. We were at it for hours, but we did save the hall.” He pointed.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say about an epic battle with flames?”

“I ruined a good set of clothes.”

They were more alike than she’d thought. Though he was not telling her what amused him about manning a fire engine pump, it was plain that London was his place, his home, and that he had been shaken in some way by the destruction of a major institution.

“Do you think Parliament will rebuild?” She tucked her notebook away.

“Grander than ever,” he said. He turned to their waterman with instructions.

*

They went up the river a little way and crossed to the south bank where a grassy knoll rose above the marshy shore. Their waterman beached the boat and handed Viv out onto a wooden plank that stretched across the mud to drier ground. Lark followed carrying their rug and picnic basket. They climbed the knoll and found a spot to spread the rug. Lark stretched out on his good side and let Viv unpack their basket. Her mood had been sobered by the ruins or the boat ride. He couldn’t decide which, but he hoped the picnic would restore her spirit.

“You wanted my story,” he said. Best to tell her while she was distracted by the items in their basket.

“Yes.” She removed a green lacquer tray from the top of the basket and began setting items on it.

“It’s easy to tell. I was orphaned young. Wenlocke, who takes an interest in orphans, saw to my education, and kept my one relative, an aunt on my mother’s side, apprised of my progress. From time to time, she generously supplies my needs.”

Her hands paused in setting out a covered dish. “Really, that’s your story?”

“You see. No wonder you fell asleep the first time I told it.” He reached out a hand to lift the lid on the dish, but she stopped him with a hand over his.

“You said your story was thrilling and full of pathos.”

“Are you not moved that I was orphaned young?” He pressed a hand over his heart.

She pulled a jar of lemonade and two glasses from the basket. “Where does this aunt of yours live?”

“Somerton.” It was a question he’d prepared for.

“Where are your parents buried?”

“They were lost at sea, so I’ve no grave to visit.”

“You were an only child?”

“I was.”

“And did you go to school somewhere? Where the masters beat you and denied you enough to eat?” She arched a brow.

“Not at all. I was privately tutored in Wenlocke’s house with other boys like me.” That, at least, was not a fiction. He should have anticipated that she would keep probing. Now he’d have to remember the answers he gave. “Are you going to let me see what’s in that dish?”