The new driver kept silent the entire time it took to reach the safe house, and this seemed to pull everyone else into the same stupor. The vehicle rounded another turn and lumbered along a wide street within view of a river. Halfway down the street, the car stopped. They sat outside a brownstone flat, hemmed in on two sides by identical buildings. Twilight made the houses mysterious and ghostly. Aside from a lonely bird song, the streets were quiet. A breeze gently rustled the leaves.

Carsten opened his door and climbed out, followed by the driver. He ordered the man to attend to Healey, and said that he would take care of the ladies until he was through. The man nodded stiffly and went to work. Carsten ambled to the last door. Claire ignored him, quite sullen, and hugged herself, a bit chilled from sitting in the open air without a jacket. Regardless, she would have to wait until he'd settled her aunt inside.

"Frau O'Shea," Carsten called. He held his hand out.

The older woman hoisted herself up from the seat with some difficulty, as her knees had stiffened during the restful ride. Carsten carefully helped her out of the car, clasping both her hands in his.

"Oh, I'm gonna feel this tomorrow," Noreen declared, putting both hands on the small of her back and stretching. She winced as her sore muscles strained.

"Not as bad as you think," Carsten said.

"I bet you've been blown to bits half a dozen times," Noreen said through her discomfort.

"Give or take, maybe a dozen." Carsten pursed his lips.

Noreen tsked at him. He smiled at her charmingly.

Carsten saw the driver exiting the flat. He loped down the stairs back to the car. Carsten signaled for him to take Noreen indoors. There was no way he was going to allow the man to put his hands on Claire while he was around. Besides, judging by the shadow on her face, he might get bitten. That was all they needed. She would be shipped off to Breendonk before he could finish giving her a piece of his mind.

The driver dutifully approached Noreen. When he offered her his arm, she hesitated and stammered with confusion. Then she saw Carsten help her niece from the car. She frowned at Claire. The man mumbled something to her, dragging her attention away. She took his arm and let him lead her.

"Come on, Thor," Noreen grumbled. "Might as well. Talking to her is like talking to the wall. Just like her father." She looked up at the man lending her his arm. He kept his eyes ahead, wearing a deep frown and ignoring her rambling. "Just like you."

Noreen's mumbling disappeared with the breeze. Carsten shut the door of the car and carefully held Claire to his side. She limped along beside him as they made their way to the flat. He could feel her tremble and noticed her eyes darting frantically.

"No need to worry," he told her. "You are safe here."

Claire placed her hand on his shoulder to balance herself. As soon as he stepped, she tried to move faster.

"Take it easy, Fräulein," he laughed. "There are no grenades in this street, I assure you."

Claire wouldn't be eased by his assurances. As she hobbled along, she tried to pull him forward as fast as her bruised body could move. Carsten exhaled with frustration and lifted her into his arms. He could carry her to the house faster.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. She was trying to cling to him but keep her distance, which was proving to be impossible.

"If you insist on hurrying, you will hurt yourself worse," Carsten replied. "You're stubborn as a mule-mad little monkey."

"Well, pardon me for being a little frightened that some cherry bomb is going to be dropped on our heads!" she said.

Carsten laughed as he carried her toward the house and up the little walk.

"Cherry bomb," he repeated, laughing. She was an endless source of amusement.

The driver emerged from the flat. He hesitated, then stepped back to hold the door wide for them. Carsten climbed the stairs, taking Claire smoothly inside with no show of strain. He easily put her down and went to dismiss the driver until the next day. They exchanged their salutes and Carsten closed the door. He faced Claire in the dimly lit entrance.

"Now, see? No bombs," he said, grinning.

Claire looked as if she wanted to say something but didn't.

"Claire," Noreen called her. "Come help me sit down."

"I will take care of her," Carsten said, brushing past.

Noreen didn't care who helped her. She just wanted them separated. Carsten had observed her concern over his attention to Claire since they'd embarked on the submarine. Noreen had every reason to worry. Her niece was in the hands of their enemy and she grew more pliant each day. Carsten grimaced, knowing this could cause difficulty for them in Berlin, where nothing would go unobserved.

Carsten took hold of Noreen's arm and helped her to shuffle into the sitting room. Behind him, Claire slipped along the wall, using the structure for support as she limped toward the doorway. There was a winged leather chair in line with the door. She headed slowly across the mauve rug toward it while Carsten helped her aunt onto a matching sofa. She reached the back of it just as he finished and came to help her.

"I've got it," Claire said. "I'll have to use the damn thing at some point anyway." The pain showed in her voice, as she sat.

"Is there anything I can get any of you?" Carsten asked.

Claire's father peered blearily at the window behind Noreen. The creamy sheers prevented a view of anything outside but shadows. "Some decent clothes would be nice," he said.

Noreen marveled at him. "He's so much more pleasant this way."

Claire couldn't help but chuckle.

"Herr Reiniger," a stranger's voice interrupted the party, startling everyone.

A withered old man in a cropped navy jacket and white gloves stood in the arch of the door. His watery eyes scanned the room, stopping on Carsten. "I do apologize. I had not heard you come in. If I can be of any assistance, please let me know," he added in very serious German tones.

"A tea service will be enough for now," Carsten said.

"I was told to have dinner ready for you shortly after your arrival," the man said. "They didn't say when you would arrive, so naturally I could not start the meal. I do apologize, Herr Reiniger. But the tea service will only be a moment. That shall give me time to prepare your suppers. Is there anything in particular that you should want?"

"Anything will do," Carsten assured him.

"Right away, Herr Reiniger," the man said. He bowed slightly, stiffly, then slowly went back the way he came. "By the way, some of the boys brought your things from your apartment. They're in your room."

Carsten nodded, thanking him again. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, facing the room. He wouldn't be going to his apartment any time soon. He had the assignment to continue and was sure his rooms were rigged with some trap by now. He only hoped this house wasn't.

"What was that all about?" Noreen asked, concerned.

"Tea," Carsten replied, pressing his hands together before his mouth.

"Now that's what the doctor ordered," Noreen said, softening.

"Fifty stitches¬-that's what the doctor ordered," Healey moaned.

They waited for his next chemically induced outburst, but he sat silently staring, not seeing anything.

"Dinner will be shortly," Carsten informed them. "And, I should think, bed. We will see to getting you some decent clothing in the morning. The stores will all be closed at nightfall. No lights."

Claire swallowed nervously, knowing what that meant.

The aged butler ambled over to the table between the sofas and set the tea service down. He muttered to Carsten and then left. Carsten poured their tea with efficient care and then went to the fireplace and leaned against the mantle. He rubbed his fingers in his eyes while his thoughts rehashed what had happened earlier. The explosion should have traumatized him more than the meeting with his commander. Yet it was just the opposite.

***

Following supper in a dark paneled room at the back of the house, Carsten reminded them it would be night soon and they should think of rest. They'd had a trying day and needed to sleep it off. They didn't argue because their full stomachs had made them sleepy.

"I will have to help Herr Healey upstairs," Carsten said, getting to his feet. "Try your best to meet me in the hall above and I will show you which rooms are yours."

Father came back to his senses during the meal, sulking like a spoiled child at the head of the table with no food. He sipped his water and chewed ice chips, ignoring them all. When Carsten offered to help him, he glared with lurid black eyes. Claire waited for the verbal assault. Shockingly, it didn't come. Father begrudgingly accepted the assistance because he was barely able to bend his knee or walk. Father took up the cane in one hand and tightly grasped Carsten's arm in the other. The men disappeared through the door and into the dim hall beyond.

The elderly servant shuffled about the room collecting the dishes and cleaning up. Claire rubbed her sore fingers on the napkin in her lap and then placed it next to her plate. Looking out the window, she saw a wall of brownstones encircling a courtyard. The sky stretched bright blue above, streaked with orange. The night came on fast.

"Let's get up there before he gets back," Aunt said, picking up her glass and draining it quickly. "I don't want him helping you to your room," she added.

Claire said nothing, but shook her head. How would she find her room if he didn't? She finished her drink and stood. Hobbling to her aunt's chair, she helped the woman up and together they wandered back to the stairway in a slow shuffle. The steep wooden stairs were daunting as they cascaded from the dark above. A runner marked the center like a giant tongue.

"What I wouldn't give for an escalator," Claire sighed at the obstacle.

After a pause, her aunt said, "Come along. We can't wait any longer."

Claire helped her aunt climb the first step; the older woman used the rail for support. Claire followed closely, afraid the woman would lose her balance. Their effort made her feel like a child again, taking each step one at a time. The stinging and aching in her leg worsened with each movement. Claire turned her back to the rail to let her bad leg hang behind, as she pulled her way up.

They had climbed most of the way before Carsten came looking for them. When he jumped down the last few steps to Aunt and then helped her up, she leaned against him instead of the rail for strength. Claire thought it was rather hypocritical of her to accept his help so readily after her lecture in the car and her comments at the table. How much could she truly fear him, if being so close was of no concern to her?

The pair disappeared around the corner, leaving Claire to manage on her own. She grumbled to herself as she moved sideways, trying not to put pressure on her sprained foot. With one last heave, she crested the last step. Claire took a breath in gratitude. She'd never had anything cause her so much trouble, except a certain gilt tyrant. She closed her eyes and tried to convince her leg not to hurt so much and her brain to think of anything else but him. There was nothing to do for either malady. She just had to keep going.

Claire stood on the landing, watching the shadows cast in the hallway from Carsten's movement in her aunt's room. He neared the door, still speaking to the other woman. Aunt had stalled to keep him there. It seemed so ridiculous of her when Claire had no idea what room to go to. She peered up the long hallway of doors and was crushed by the seeming distance. Her gaze swung behind her and she was made dizzy looking down the cascade of steps. Hobbling forward, she leaned against the wall before her limbs gave out and she stumbled. Her eyes became suddenly heavy and pain throbbed throughout her flesh. All she wanted was to lie down and find some peace.

Carsten emerged from Aunt's room, closing the door and locking it with a key from the outside. Aunt still chattered on as he did so. Claire exhaled in relief at the sight of him. He walked toward her, pocketing the key in his jacket. He smiled, cocking his head to the side.

"Is she always this demanding?" Carsten asked.

"Only when she's not feeling well," Claire said.

Carsten carefully lifted her away from the wall to his side. "Come along."

Claire leaned against him, reviving her memory of the hospital and their arrival at the house. Heat filled her face and she blessed the dark for hiding it. She nearly laughed at herself, but stifled it, though a nagging smile tickled her lips.

"So you are the opposite of your aunt, then."

"What do you mean?" Claire said, confused.

"You get quiet when you're not well and you run your mouth the rest of the time."

"That's not funny," Claire said.

"I was not meaning to be," Carsten said, smirking.

"Listen, I'm tired. I'm liable to rip your head off if you don't watch it, Fritzy," Claire threatened him. She imagined that she sounded as intimidating as a teacup poodle to him.

"For God and country?"

"Something like that." Claire winced as she came down a little too hard on her ankle.

"Did they check you over?"

"Boy, did they," Claire said, exasperated. She couldn't hide the truth from him any longer. "Sprained ankle. Sprained knee. A bruised elbow. Scraped hands and a cut the size of the Mississippi."

They came to a door opposite her aunt's in the long hallway. Carsten held her tighter to his side and opened the door. A devious glint sparkled in his eyes.

"What?"

"Come," he said, pulling her into the room.

"Now, mind your manners, Fritzy," Claire said, not liking the idea of being left alone with him in a bedroom while everyone else was locked away in theirs. "My aunt is just over there and if you think a little thing like a locked door is going to stop her-"

"Whatever do you mean, Liberty Belle?" he asked, setting her on the bed. Carsten's arm snaked away from her waist.

Claire blinked at him. "Nothing," she said flatly.

"Let me take a look at that cut." He knelt before her, removing her shoe.

"If you bring me the bandages, I could do that myself."

"I am just going to look," he said, peeling the bandage gently back. Despite his efforts to be careful, it pulled her skin and she winced. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Claire leaned back on the bed, hoping to reintroduce some space between her and Carsten. He pulled the bandage the rest of the way off. The doctors had removed her hose at the hospital. She didn't like Carsten being that close to her bare legs. It just wasn't done and it left her feeling trapped and naked.

Carsten rose to his feet. "I will be right back."

Carsten hurried out of the room. His shadow bobbed along the hallway in time with his footsteps. Slowly, her eyes slipped to her leg. The outline of the bandage was wrinkled into her skin. She reached down and touched the moist area beside the cut. The bleeding had stopped, but the wound seemed worse now. Her one knee boasted purple splotches to match her ankle and both were larger than those of the cut leg. She frowned hard, wishing she had never seen the place called Verviers.

Carsten reappeared carrying materials for a fresh bandage and a basin. Towels were tucked under his arm. Claire's eyes went wide.

"What are you going to do?"

"Clean it," Carsten said, setting the basin down on the floor. He put the other materials beside him and grasped her ankle. "Move this way. I don't want to get water all over." He inspected her ankle and knee and frowned. "I am sorry we don't have any more ice. When you go to bed, put a pillow under your foot. It will help keep the swelling down. I'll get you an aspirin from the cabinet before I leave."

Claire listened to his instructions and reluctantly slid to the edge of the bed. He tucked one towel under her leg, reaching too close to places he had no business being near. A blush crept onto her cheeks, thinking of how Aunt would explode if she saw this.

When the sponge touched her leg, the warm water startled her and she jerked her leg away. Carsten gently wrapped his fingers around her ankle again and told her to sit still. His hand slid up the back of her calf to stop her from moving. He carefully washed the wound, removing the dried blood and sweat. In moments it looked much better. Now it was just an ugly gash up her leg that would probably leave a lasting memory. She pouted.

"What is the matter?" Carsten smiled.

"I'm going to have a terrible scar," Claire said. "There goes my modeling career."

"You model?" Carsten asked, drying her leg off.

"No, and I can't now," Claire whined.

"So you only want what you cannot have?"

"No," Claire said. "Why would you say that?"

"You had no interest before until you thought you could not do it," he said. He knelt with her foot against his leg, half grinning.

"I've thought about it," Claire said, leaning on one arm. The other lay across her lap, pinning her skirt down for modesty. "I just had school to worry about first."

Carsten shook his head. He picked up a small glass jar filled with an amber substance. Popping the top, he spooned out some of the liquid. The amber stuff lazily rolled down the cut. She winced as the cold made it sting. Using the flat of the spoon, he carefully smeared the amber to cover the cut.

"What is that?"

"Honey," Carsten said.

"Honey?" Claire questioned. "I'm not a piece of toast, Mr. Reiniger."

"Honey has been used for centuries for cuts," Carsten said. He concentrated on her wound, covering it with some gauze.

"That's just silly," Claire said. He taped up the bandage. "You're serious."

Carsten sat back on his haunches and considered her reluctance to trust him.

"Where do you learn this stuff?"

"Training," Carsten answered.

Claire considered him as he picked up the mess he'd made on the floor. He pulled the towel out from under her leg and stood while she hoisted her leg up on the bed and examined his work. Hopefully in a few days it would be on the mend.

As promised, he rounded the bed with the basin and went into the bathroom. She listened to him dump the water, then rummage in the cabinets. Water ran from the tap. When he returned, he offered her a pair of lovely white aspirin and a glass of clear water. Claire took the items, tossed the aspirin in her mouth with little ceremony and washed them down. He watched her carefully and she wondered if he had just poisoned her.

"Do you need anything else?" Carsten asked, "Before I lock you in?"

"No," Claire whispered with a frown. She hesitantly looked back to her wounds. "Do you truly think I can run off like this?"

"Bathroom is through there." He pointed to the suspicious panel door on the other side of the bed where he had disappeared a moment ago. He ignored her question.

Claire glanced over her shoulder at the corner behind her. Only the knob was visible in the paneling to indicate anything was there.

"Do not turn on any lights while it is dark. If you need anything, push this button. It will ring the butler, who will get me up." Carsten indicated a button by the door that resembled something like a doorbell. He then gathered up his supplies. "If that is all, Fräulein," Carsten said moving to exit, "I will see you in the morning."

"Good night," Claire said, pulling her skirt back past her knees and getting to her feet.

"Good night," he replied, closing the door.

Claire listened to the key slip into the lock and the tumblers roll. She hopped to the bathroom, muttering under her breath. The cut didn't pain her so much now, after being soothed by the bath and honey. She wished the ache in her other leg would follow suit.

Claire used the bathroom with only the nightstand lamp that was nearly useless, being so dim. After using the toilet, she washed her hands and pored over her reflection in the mirror. She was quite a fright with her hair tangled in knots from all the commotion. She combed it with her fingers, having no other choice. At least her compact had been in her purse with her lipstick and other important things. From now on, she'd make sure there was a comb in that pack.

When she had finished despairing over the sight of herself and making due with what was available to fix it, she found a white robe hanging on a hook behind the door. She shucked her suit and shirt, leaving only her undergarments on and shrugged the robe onto her bruised frame. She then tossed the discarded clothes into a nearby chair, relishing some comfort at last. Claire gingerly stepped from the bathroom and went to the bed. She flicked off the light and lay back against the pillows. The smell of the fresh linen surrounded her, as well as a silence as deep as she imagined a crypt would contain. Rolling onto her side, Claire saw the jar of honey still sitting on the nightstand with the spoon on the lid beside it. While she peered at it through the gloom, his reminder to prop up her foot repeated in her memory, but she was too exhausted to move. She grimaced at the jar, as though it were to blame.

Instead of doing as she was asked, Claire lay with her mind running at a maddening pace. Although her body was ready to collapse, her mind was frantic for answers and could not. She thought of supper, but uncharacteristically not of the food. Aunt was deathly afraid of Carsten for some reason. After all the man had done to keep them safe, what could possibly make her increasingly distrust him? Claire sighed, realizing she was actually the unreasonable one. He had held them at gunpoint, tossed them about like a set of matched luggage and spoke to them in inexcusable tones. Then other moments stepped into her mind. The kitchen at home marked the start of it all. Dinner at the Parker House remained very fresh in her memory. His continued attentiveness despite her on the submarine. She felt him massage her hand all over again, and her leg tingled with the memory of his care just moments ago.

"I must be one daffy broad," Claire whispered to herself.

Claire yawned and decided to face the other direction before she wasted the whole night obsessing over Carsten Reiniger via a jar of honey. She pulled the blankets tight about her shoulders and watched the tree branches dance behind the curtains on the far side of the room. She insisted to herself that if he struck her, that would be the end of it. She was not a fool to suffer a bully.

Claire had just fallen asleep when a whining siren woke her from her dream. Was this another of LaGuardia's drills? She had been dancing with Sarry, lost on a New York City ballroom floor filled with masked men. The music sounded divine as they spun about laughing. Then sinister forms pushed from behind the masked men lining the walls. One of them closed in on her. His face was hidden behind a blank mask, but she thought she recognized the flaxen hue of his hair. They all wore strange clothes-uniforms-with swastikas. Claire sat upright with her eyes large on the window. She instantly forgot the dream when she realized what the alarm meant.

"Claire!" She heard her aunt's call muffled by the door. "Claire!"

Claire leapt out of bed and had just retied the sash on her robe before the door popped open. She grabbed her rumpled clothes from the chair and hobbled around the giant bed to where her shoes sat. She gathered them up along with her clutch. No matter what was going on, she refused to lose the few possessions she had left. The door crashed open and Carsten stood there with the butler and her aunt behind.

"Come on," Aunt said. "We have to go!"

Aunt's face was a mask of fear. She grabbed Claire by the arm and pulled her out of the room.

"What's happening?" Claire asked.

"Air raid," Carsten said calmly. "Follow the butler to the shelter. I will be there in a moment with your father."

"And you said there were no bombs!" Claire exclaimed

"Go," Carsten ordered.

Aunt pulled Claire close. The butler led the way, shuffling along in a manner that contradicted the urgency of the sirens. They reached the landing of the stairs and carefully stepped down each one. He then took them through the kitchen at the back of the house to yet another panel door. Behind the door they saw nothing but darkness.

The butler waved his hand for them to go. Aunt took Claire's hand and grabbed the rail with her other. Claire carefully stepped down, despite being pulled off balance by her aunt and the weakness of her leg. They found each step in the dark, feeling with their toes for the rough wood. The door shut behind them. They could hear the butler scuffing on the stairs above them. He struck a switch and a sudden flood of light filled the space below. Claire and her aunt looked over their shoulders at the old man. He nodded with a mash-mouthed smile, cool as a cucumber.

Anxiety quickly replaced their relief. The drone of airplane engines overtook the house until the timbers and stones shook. They continued their route down the stairs at a quicker pace. The butler followed in his casual manner as if nothing was happening. At the bottom of the steps, they faced a cinderblock wall with a hatch door suspended in its center. The butler wandered past them to approach the barrier. He pushed the heavy steel lever down and then swung the door back to reveal a wide, dark room filled with cots, crated supplies and various other necessities. It must have stretched the entire length of the house and into the courtyard beyond.

The butler urged them to enter the shelter. A distant sound like firecrackers reverberated outside. Hollow sounding explosions followed. It reminded her of the endless days trapped on the sub. Claire looked up. A rain of dust fell from the floorboards above. Aunt hurried through the hatch, not wishing to be where the house could fall down on their heads. The butler shut off the light in the cellar and motioned again for her to go inside.

"Get in here," Aunt urged Claire as well.

Claire finally freed herself from her panic and entered the shelter. The butler flipped several heavy duty switches and the hanging industrial lamps flickered on, changing the dark tomb into a dim crypt. Claire wandered toward the back, eyeing the arches of the ceiling and clutching her few belongings tight. A high-pitched whistle froze each of them where they stood. Claire wondered if the shelter was far enough down to be safe. The butler closed the hatch and the sound became muffled. He calmly stood against the iron wall as he held the door lever. Carsten and her father were still out there. He seemed to expect the men to arrive any moment and Claire hoped he was right, but a sudden explosion shook the earth and their shelter. Dust cascaded from above as a terrible sound resonated from beyond the door. Claire dropped onto the cot behind her, eyeing the arches again. Tremors shook through the concrete, as if the house had collapsed on top of them.

"Carsten," Claire whispered.

Moved by a fear of losing her only hope, Claire threw down her things and jumped up. She headed toward the door, but her aunt grasped her wrist and pulled her back. She shook her head with a warning glance. Next came the wagging finger.

"What if something's happened?" Claire asked.

"What if it has?" Aunt asked, stilled by Claire's question. "With any luck, it will be our ticket out of here."

"You can't mean that," Claire said. "He's been helping us."

"Has he?" Aunt asked. "You think you can trust a man like that? Look at us! That's where our trust has brought us."

"Aunt," Claire said, saddened by her hardness. "Without him, what do you think will happen to us? Father certainly will not help. He'll be sure to put us away."

Aunt shook her head no. She refused to listen, already having her mind made up about Carsten Reiniger. Claire wandered back to the cot with her things and sat down. Her eyes scanned the room, seeing nothing. She was anxious for the men to appear, but feared they had been destroyed in the explosion.

Several tense moments passed. The butler at last swung the hatch wide. Carsten stood there with her father dangling from his arm. Father was half-mad, baring his teeth and glaring into the room. He clutched his cane uselessly in his hand. Claire's eyes switched to their captor. He was strained from bringing her father to the shelter-his bare shoulders and arms were tightly flexed and his breathing was labored. He dragged Father forward while the older man glowered blindly at the interior of the room and its occupants.

The butler greeted the men with an unusual smile. He spoke to Carsten in German, his tone gentle and encouraging. When Carsten cleared the door, the butler closed the hatch and pushed the lever tightly down to lock it. He followed Carsten, mumbling.

Claire rose to her feet, but her aunt stepped in the way, urging her to sit back down. Aunt became terribly panicked by Carsten's arrival and Claire could guess that his state of dress, or undress, didn't help the matter. Claire slumped on the cot once more, upset that her aunt still thought there was something between them. She picked through her few belongings, quietly waiting for the raid to end or for Carsten to say something comforting.

During this, Carsten placed her father on a cot near the door. Father sat up, gripping the edge of the cot with white knuckles. The butler neared with a basin that he had retrieved from a cabinet by a sink. He put it directly under Father's face. She flicked her eyes away but still heard him vomit into the bowl. Slowly he slumped to the side. The butler set the basin on the sink and then hurried back to him, gently lifting his injured limbs onto the cot. He found a pillow to prop Father's head and a blanket to cover him. Carsten drew hard breaths as he regained his strength, letting the old man do the work. Carsten paced to the other side of the room and threw himself on the last cot. Aunt stepped away, satisfied with the distance she'd forced between him and Claire. She settled herself on the cot between Claire and her father before Carsten could change his mind. The threat would be forced to stay where it was.

Carsten appeared to be studying the poured concrete floor. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, muttering. He blew out his breath and leaned back against the concrete wall to his eyes and gather himself. His chest rose and fell, gently settling into an even pace. Claire guessed he had been sleeping before the sirens startled them all. The contours of his torso were clear beneath the flimsy undershirt he wore.

Claire hadn't expected Carsten to be so strongly built, but she should have known by the way he'd carried her without effort. She wished she hadn't noticed, but it was too late. Her cheeks were red and averting her face wouldn't change that.

The rumble of plane engines roared once more, taking her attention away from Carsten's form. The bombs came within moments, peppering the distance until they exploded above them one after another. The shelter trembled and dust fell from the arched ceiling again. The electricity flickered on and off until it came back weakly. The pounding threatened to cave in the shelter as it shook the room like a toy.

Claire drew her knees to her chest and covered her head with her hands. The hanging lights in the shelter swung wildly, and tears slid down her face in cold streams. She made no sound, instead concentrating on her own breathing as she fought to hear it above the deafening cavalcade. The scene was surreal, as if she watched it on a movie screen.

Claire felt something enfold her body, warm and shielding. At first she was sure Aunt had come to comfort her, but then she smelled the familiar, intoxicating aroma that she would let drag her to disgrace. Once more, she didn't care. She breathed in his scent and found his neck to bury her face against it. Her arms encircled him, pulling him close. He was the only thing standing between her and damnation.

Carsten pulled Claire into his lap and cradled her against him. She closed her eyes and concentrated on his strong hand resting on the back of her head. He gently stroked her hair as the rumbling drew on. The light flickered back to life and went out several times. Claire kept her eyes focused down the length of the shelter toward the hatch door, trembling and silently counting through each explosion.

Silence came. The light brightened to a ghostly glow, and Aunt watched Claire sitting crumpled up in Carsten's lap. Aunt's face was the palest white-tears stood in her eyes and her lip quivered. They considered each other, either waiting for the bombs to fall into the shelter or for the other to speak. When the silence persisted, Aunt raised a hand and gestured for her to stay. When she diverted her attention to adjusting her disheveled clothing, Claire knew Aunt had granted a truce for the time being.

The drone of plane engines wailed again. All eyes went to the ceiling.

"How long can they go on like this?" Claire asked. She shook all over, breathing hard against his shoulder. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled him closer.

"Seems like forever sometimes," Carsten said, pulling her tighter. "We're safe here. I promise you."

"If we die," Claire said, "please don't let them bury me here. Send me home."

"If we die," Carsten smiled, "I will not be able to help you with that."

Claire lifted her chin from his shoulder and frowned at him trying to make sense of what he said. He smiled at her, and brushed the hair from her eyes. Claire gained a strange reassurance in his arrogance. A small smile curled the corners of her lips as the somewhat twisted humor of the situation reached her tattered mind. She wanted to laugh, but quickly remembered where they were and why. He showed his teeth in a dejected grimace, probably at seeing the disappointment in her eyes. Claire froze, afraid to move or stay as the realization between them crashed on her like the bombs.

The bomber engines rumbled close and explosions soon shook the shelter once more. Carsten shifted her to his side and safely out of his lap, but still kept his arm around her. Claire lowered her head to his shoulder and listened. Soon the bombs just sounded like fireworks, distant and harmless. She shivered, still afraid, but her senses quickly filled with his presence and it calmed her nerves. Her heavy lids shut, comforted by the notion of safety. The rest of her body relaxed, collapsing under exhaustion. The drone of engines and crashing bombs were replaced by the rise and fall of his chest and the rhythm of his heart. Then everything turned into a pale dream of Boston and a home that no longer existed.