He asked her diffidently, aware it was no business of his, what plans she might have for after the war. He expected her to say something about Gavin Trevelyan. She told him about her mother the opera singer instead. Her mother had sung at La Scala, and Katarina would like nothing better than to follow in her footsteps. Perhaps it was not too late for her to learn, she said. Perhaps the smoke of London had not irretrievably ruined her throat.
It had been a long day’s work, what with dodging artillery in the alleyway and climbing the cliffsides of Orkney, and William felt his jawbones cracking with stifled yawns. It was terribly discourteous, of course, but he simply could not help it. At least Katarina did not seem offended. “There’s plenty of time before it rains,” she said to him, amusem
