After a farewell exchange with Wilhelm, David was escorted back to his suite, and he sprawled on the chaise longue, watching the fire and reflecting.

The evening had gone far better than he had hoped. The wines had worked as he had imagined they might, but more than that, Wilhelm had talked with a looseness that hinted at deeper strains than mere frustration. Verdun still obsessed the generals, yet fear of the Somme was already warping their judgement. The rails, Hans's informants, the reports from the women, and now Wilhelm's own bitterness – all converged toward the same shape.

He let out a long breath and closed his eyes. Good. More than good. Enough for London to understand the line of strain. Enough to justify another visit.

Then his thoughts shifted from operations to Maria, as they always did when tension eased. What would she be doing now? Likely sleeping, or perhaps not quite, turning once or twice before settling again. He pictured her in their bed in Bern, the early changes making her sleep more deeply, yet less restfully. He smiled at how she half encouraged, half chided him for risking all this. Home to comfort her tomorrow night.

The fire settled lower with a soft sigh of collapsing embers. The room, so opulent on first entering, now felt less like privilege than a gilded waiting room in the machinery of war. The heavy curtains shut out the city, and the silence was so complete that each crackle from the grate seemed intrusive.

He glanced at the writing table and its stationery folder. No, not here. Nothing until Switzerland. Then he rose, extinguished the lamps until only the firelight remained. In the bed chamber, he undressed, refreshed and washed. Then after opening the window a crack for fresh air, he settled on the bed, the cool linen sheets refreshing against his skin.

Even with the day's strain eased, sleep did not come quickly. His mind kept circling the same points – Bapaume, Somme, Knobelsdorff, and Wilhelm's phrase, "I am told, not consulted." But more, the weight in his voice when he spoke of the women's letters.

At some point, the thoughts blurred, and he drifted into sleep.

Wednesday, 14th June 1916

David woke, lying still for a moment in the pale early morning light showing between the window drapes and listening to the muffled city beyond. Somewhere below, a cart rattled on cobbles. Farther off, a locomotive whistle rose and faded.

As he reviewed the salient points of his meeting, a knock sounded on the door, and he called, "Enter."

The sitting room door latch clicked, and a voice said, "Good morning, sir. His Imperial Highness directed that your breakfast be served here at seven precisely, and that I inform you that a motorcar will take you to the station at a quarter past eight."

"Thank you. Set it on the table. I shall be out shortly."

David rose, pulled on the dressing gown and chuckled at the short sash. Then in the sitting room, he lifted two silver covers to see coffee still steaming, a basket of fresh rolls, dishes of butter and apricot preserves. The third lid revealed a plate of thin ham slices and two eggs. Likely soft-boiled, he thought.

He sat in his gown and ate without haste, though his thoughts were already rushing ahead to possible next steps.

After breakfast, he dressed and tied the cravat, smiling as he thought of the night before. He picked up the improvised bow, folded it and slipped it into the inner pocket of his suitcoat. Maria will laugh at this.

At eight-ten, a knock sounded, and David opened the door to the same young Prussian lieutenant who had escorted him the previous evening. "Herr Meier, the motorcar is ready."

"Thank you."

The lieutenant took his suitbag, and together they crossed the now quieter galleries of the palace. Morning light through the windows had replaced lamplight, showing the tapestries and portraits less flatteringly than the evening before. Everything seemed more administrative now – less imperial theatre, more office.

Outside, a staff car waited in the courtyard. The chauffeur opened the rear door, and David settled in, the lieutenant beside him, and within moments they were through the gate and into the streets of Metz.

The city looked different now. Though the same uniforms were everywhere, they were mixed with morning scurrying – delivery wagons, women carrying baskets, railway labourers and clerks.

At the station, the lieutenant led him not through the public entrance, but through a side gate and along a narrow paved passage that emerged directly onto the platform. "Your train for Straßburg will depart in twelve minutes, and a first-class compartment has been reserved. His Imperial Highness instructed that there be no inconvenience."

"Please convey my thanks to him."

The lieutenant clicked his heels. "Certainly. And ..." For the first time, he allowed himself the faintest trace of curiosity. "His Imperial Highness seemed in unexpectedly fine humour after dinner. That is rare these days."

David allowed himself a diplomatic smile. "The wines helped."

"Then Germany is indebted to you, sir." With that, the young man saluted and withdrew.

David turned toward the waiting train. Compared with the crowded priority train that had brought him to Metz, this one seemed almost civil. A locomotive, postal wagon, baggage car, two third-class coaches, then the first-class carriage to which a porter now led him.

Inside, the compartment was empty. He took a book from the side pocket of his suitbag and laid it on the seat. Then with the bag stowed on the rack, he picked up the book and settled into the window seat. The leather cushions were worn but comfortable, and the air was already warming from the sun through the window.

Outside, whistles sounded, guards shouted, and porters swung clear as the train began to fill. A woman with two children hurried toward the far end of the platform. Two officers in travel-stained field-grey walked past his open door, their voices low and brittle with fatigue.

He checked his watch – eight twenty-six. With his mind still sifting through recent experiences, he opened his book. Time to stop the over-observing – the overthinking.

He hadn't finished the first paragraph when a heavy-set man entered his compartment and greeted, "Guten Tag, mein Herr. Verzeihen Sie das Eindringen ... Good day, sir. Forgive the intrusion ... but when I saw the seal of His Imperial Highness, I knew that in this compartment I could at least expect a straight answer. The ministries in Berlin have completely lost touch with reality."

Intrigued by the bluntness, David maintained a polite but guarded tone. "Guten Tag. Bitte, nehmen Sie Platz ... Good day. Please, take a seat. It sounds as though you are carrying a heavy burden."

He nodded and sank heavily into the cushions opposite, his eyes fixed on the red seal in David's pocket, a mixture of respect and deep fatigue in his gaze. "Eine Last, die von Woche zu Woche ... A burden that grows more oppressive from week to week, sir."

Need to play this along. He closed the book, set it on the seat and said, "Der Krieg ist für keinen ... The war is not easy for any of us."

The man laid his leather briefcase on the seat and rubbed his temples. "Mein Name ist Gerhard Koenig ... My name is Gerhard Koenig. The Army Command demands a doubling of our steel production by autumn, while simultaneously drafting my skilled workers to the Front. Steel does not make itself."

Koenig's voice trailed off as the locomotive let out a sharp, rhythmic chuff, finally pulling the train out of the Metz station while David thought: Do I know enough to continue this? Or should I pretend confidentiality and shift topics? I know the overview, the shape. Here is an opportunity for details.