Elliot's return punctured their fragile peace in the slam of the French doors leading into the lounge.

"A word, Jordie."

"In a minute, Elliot. I'm entertaining a guest."

"Now, Jordana."

Murmuring apologies, Jordie disentangled herself from Romana. She was caught out, she was flushed. Romana's perfume mingled with her as their lipsticks had mingled on that cigarette days ago. Jordie had crossed a line Romana had welcomed her to cross. Loving Tamsin hadn't felt as perilous as this.

Jordie swept her fingers under her eyes to remove the evidence of what had happened and only worsened the damage. Romana appeared with her handkerchief and fixed her right up. She didn't say a word; her sympathy was all honeyed feather touch and tender hands cupping Jordie's chin. Elliot was unhappy, why was immaterial. How could she know better?

Jordie marched to Elliot's study to find him scowling out the bay window onto the street, smeared an insalubrious grey from the muck of trodden snow.

"What's got into you? What could possibly have possessed you to behave that way in front of my friend? She's my guest, Elliot. As I recall, that used to mean something to you." Yes, Romana was an attractive woman, as anyone could see, but she was no more a rival for Jordie's affections than the postman.

Elliot rounded on her. "'Friend'? You've never once mentioned her. I know everything about you, Jordana. You don't have 'friends.'" Jordie retreated a step. "Were it not for all that sordidness during the War, I'd think you didn't fancy women at all." Jordie shushed him. She didn't want Romana to her, to know about her. It wasn't shame, exactly, but...she had only just found her. She didn't want to lose her now. "We can't be associating with her sort, anyhow, especially now."

"Her sort? What sort is that, Elliot? Upstanding, intelligent women unafraid to use their natural gifts? I think those are exactly the 'sort' we should be associating with, if you ask me."

Elliot rolled his eyes. "You know exactly the sort I'm referring to. A regular Wallis Simpson." Jordie didn't follow the Royal Family more than strictly necessary but there was little else discuss between skirmishes and news of the world. "She's getting divorced." Jordie was nonplussed. In her circles, Simpson was better known for her suspect loyalties than her marital history. "You do know who that was, don't you? Not just another of your lady doctor compatriots. That's Edgar Gentry's wife."

"I don't care whose wife she is. She is my friend, and, yes, I have them."

"That won't do at all." He retrieved a clandestine box of cigars where they were concealed on a high shelf and took one out to trim. "I forbid it. I forbid you to speak to her, and for heaven's sake, don't be seen with her."

"Beg your pardon. I don't take orders from you."

"So long as you're part of this family, you do."

Jordie sucked in a deep breath.

"Don't threaten me. I've faced down much bigger men than you and come out breathing."

He yanked the lit Cuban cigar from his mouth. "Oh ho, I should have known—I should have known you weren't through with it all."

Jordie was thrown by the tangent. "What are you on about?"

"She's one of your women."

Jordie blanched, instantly hating the flutter of fear and roiling nausea that sprung up inside her. "Stop this. I don't have 'women.' She's my friend. I told you, that's over." It had been over from the first kiss Jordie shared with fellow medic Lieutenant Tamsin Morrison on D-Day. They had both known this wasn't a love that could follow them home. Each moment had been all the more bittersweet for being forbidden. Were it not for the postcards Tamsin had sent her from Paris, Elliot might never have known. I wish he didn't.

"It had better be done with. The only reason I've put up with that unnaturalness is because the children love you."

Jordie growled, "You know bloody well I love my children. I won't have you implying otherwise."

"Then act like it. Act like you've got an ounce of sense in that dizzy head of yours and prioritize. You can't be taking on every charity project and lone wolf on the range. Your children need you, I need you. Act like you have some idea what it takes to be a wife and mother. Maybe then you'll finally convince the rest of us."

Jordie's palms began to sweat. There was no dizzy, tingling feeling to accompany it like when Romana leaned toward her or brushed her cheek.

"You don't choose my friends, I choose my friends."

"She had better only be a friend." He puffed away at his cigar. "You know as well as I do, you only got out of the army with your rank because of who your father is. One sniff of unnaturalness—"

Jordie threw up her hands in self-defense. "You've made your point." It had been too good to be true, seeing Romana again. Her red lips. Her sparking wit. Her safe arms. "I won't speak to her again, all right?"

"Good. I want her out of this house, now."

Jordie called upon her not inconsiderable nerve to reenter the lounge where she'd left Romana. When she did, it was as if a switch had been flicked. The warmth Romana had demonstrated only minutes prior had been replaced by a terrible blankness. Jordie couldn't find it in herself to be as cruel as Elliot expected. She never left a woman behind.

Romana crossed her arms in front of her. Her neck was pink, as were her ears. It was embarrassment tinged with shame. Jordie knew something of the look that put on a woman.

"He told you about the divorce. I should have said something." She laughed at her own expense, plucking at the pendant Jordie hadn't seen hidden beneath her blouse. Romana waved a hand. "I got sick of being avoided like I carry polio by every person I know and when you didn't balk hearing my name, I assumed you knew but didn't care."

"I don't care, Romana." That much was true, though it wouldn't change what she knew to be necessary. Her children had to come first, or everything was lost. Romana was lost, regardless, so why couldn't Jordie stop wanting her to stay?

"Your husband cares. You should listen to him. Divorce is worse than VD, or is it the same thing? I couldn't say. I'm only a trained surgeon."

"He's wrong about this." She didn't want Romana to go like this.

"Men stick together to protect their territory and their good names. Nothing I didn't know. Just you be careful he doesn't scuttle you too, hmm?" Romana dropped her hands at her sides, spine rigid in a pained facsimile of attention. "If you'll fetch my two, I'll be right out of your hair. You won't have to worry about me again."

"I don't want you to go."

"That doesn't mean I should stay. We both know that isn't how this works. Madeline and Troy, please, if you wouldn't mind. I'll get my coat." She edged toward the doors, giving Jordie ample opportunity to be brave and fearless and care as much as Romana had cared about the good person Jordie was supposed to be. But Jordie was scared. There was everything to play for, and really, only a stranger to gain. So dear a stranger.

"If you insist."

No sooner had the quiet roar of Romana's Sixteen faded into the distance than Jordie was digging out another cigarette to burn the taste of bile from her tongue and tears from her throat. She had let her new friend go without an ounce of the fight she'd have exerted to save a life. So much for all the good she put into the world.

She skipped lunch and kipped through dinner. She couldn't think of anything worth having anymore, not today.