She had a lovely face, just as he remembered it from that brief moment one hundred and twenty-five years ago when there had been the shared communion of death between them, he the giver, she the receiver. Her hair, almost too meticulously brushed it seemed, almost funereally perfect, was a rich, dark auburn, the arrangement softening with time. The hair grew, of course. Generaloberst Wolfgang Mann’s hair was well past military length, and a healthy growth of beard adorned Mann’s traitorous countenance. Deitrich Zimmer’s thoughts returned to Sarah Rourke. With her eyelids down, of course, it was impossible to see her eyes. But he remembered them as they had been in that instant more than a century ago when they had flashed up at him, defiantly, proudly. She was, of course, a remarkable woman, full of courage and strength and determination and not at all unattractive. She was the mother of his son. Several courses of action lay open to him now, possessed of her body as he was. With her, he would assuredly be able to trade for the return of Martin.
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