A set of worn marble steps rose from the pavement to nowhere. The pale slash of searchlights bounced off the underside of a barrage balloon tied six or seven streets over; a new addition to the neighborhood. But low clouds and a misting drizzle kept German bombers grounded, and no growl of airplane engines broke the normal sounds of a city bedding down. London was quiet—for now. Anna stood across the street, unable to tear her eyes from the hole where her life had once been, unable to tear her thoughts from Graham’s scratchy wool cardigans and gentle laugh and Prue’s wire spectacles and inevitable wise sayings. These should have been enough for her, but beyond these memories lay dim, half-formed impressions conjured from her own imagination. Lady Katherine’s paint-stained fingers and devilish grin, Simon Halliday’s rugged good looks and bohemian temperament. Never in her wildest fantasies had she ever imagined—his wife. Last October she had lost the two people she loved most—her family.
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