The Last Night in London by Karen White (reading list .TXT) 📕

dance floor. Eva watched his hand on the woman’s back, remembering what it felt like. Feeling the heat on her own skin.

Alex moved her in his arms, the splash of red on the periphery of her vision a reminder of where she’d rather be. She breathed in the miasma of expensive cigarettes as she half listened to the bubbles of conversations around her, the smoky, insinuating music of the band, all the while pretending she was somewhere else.

They were halfway around the dance floor when the outdoor bombardment began, the noise penetrating the soundproofing of the walls. The dancers paused, looking at the bandleader for guidance. After the second blast, the band struck up the first bars of the “Anvil Chorus” from Il Trovatore. The musicians played every other note, timing the gaps to allow the detonating bombs to complete Verdi’s lines.

“How amusing,” Alex whispered in her ear.

Eva watched as Graham smiled down at his partner, saw the pretty flush that colored her cheeks. “I want to go home.”

“All right.” Alex leaned close to her ear. “But first, I need you to go to the bar and ask the waiter with the large mustache for a French Seventy-five. When he tells you he has no champagne, ask for a menu. Put the menu in your purse, and then we shall leave.”

“Why can’t you do it yourself?” she hissed.

“Because they’re watching me. You’re not of any interest to them. Yet.”

“Them?”

He looked at her, then threw back his head, laughing loud enough that fellow dancers turned to stare. But when she turned her head to see if Graham was among them, he and the woman in red had gone.

—

The smoky scents of crumbling concrete and burning paper traveled through the clear air of the early November evening. On her stroll around Regent’s Park to Chester Terrace, Eva shoved her gloved hands into the pockets of her wool coat, feeling the crinkle of the empty envelope. It wasn’t too far a walk from Harley House, and she knew the way well enough now. She carried a small torch, the top half of the glass darkened with nail polish, that she’d flicker on and off to point her way and illuminate any debris or holes. A bus full of people had fallen into a giant crater just the week before, the driver unaware that a bomb had dropped the night before, cleaving the street in half. She carried a white handkerchief to be seen by other pedestrians and drivers so as not to be hit as she stepped off a curb.

Faraway fires to the east created a hellish orange glow on the horizon, the enemy’s calling card. Eva’s footsteps echoed on the quiet street; she huddled into her coat and walked quickly. She always felt watched when she ran this errand, as if all the darkened windows had eyes, the cracks in the pavement ears. A few times she’d imagined a man in the shadows, a large shape that resembled Jiri’s. She’d never approached, not sure if she was more afraid it might be him or more afraid that it wasn’t.

A distant dog barked, turning her head. It was rare to see or hear pets in the city anymore; most had been evacuated to safer spots in the country. Or euthanized by their owners in acts of mercy, as Freya had informed her when Eva made the error of mentioning how quiet the city had become.

She passed under the Corinthian arch bearing the terrace’s name at one end of the street; she allowed her hand to follow the wrought iron railing, counting the openings until she reached the third. Carefully, she climbed the two steps. She found it almost amusing that she had no idea what color the door was, having ever seen the house only at night.

Pausing to make sure there was no one nearby, she slipped the envelope out of her pocket and through the brass slot in the middle of the door. Her gloved fingers held open the brass flap as she waited for the light slap of envelope on marble, then closed it gently.

She didn’t move, listening for the sound of footsteps or any other sign of life on the other side of the door. As always, a tomblike silence answered her curiosity, the quiet almost more disturbing than a shout.

Holding carefully to the railing, she returned to the sidewalk, eager to get back to Harley House and the half-empty bottle that awaited her on her bedside table.

“Eva.”

Her hand pressed against her heart as she turned, her mouth dry. She stuck out an arm into the darkness, her fingers touching the heavy fabric of a coat. “Graham?”

“Yes.” He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t move away.

Her joy at hearing his voice warred with the fright and surprise his sudden appearance had caused. “What are you doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” The scratch of a match striking was followed by a brief flame as Graham lit a cigarette, briefly illuminating his face. He still wore his evening clothes, his tie undone, his throat exposed. Eva closed her eyes for a moment, seeing the image imprinted on her eyelids.

She thought of Alex and his threats. She couldn’t tell Graham the truth. What was one more lie on top of all the others? “I couldn’t sleep. I had to clear my head.”

“Me, too,” he said, the end of his cigarette glowing orange. “I was admiring the architecture.”

And maybe because she’d become so proficient with lying, she recognized the lie he’d just told her.

“In the dark?”

He smiled around his cigarette, as if amused at being caught out. “Did you know Chester Terrace was originally designed by John Nash? Sadly, his plans were altered almost beyond recognition by Decimus Burton. He made such a mess of it that Nash sought to have the entire terrace demolished and rebuilt, but his efforts were in vain.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Do you know who lives here?” he asked softly. He stood close to