Violet’s breath thins to a wisp in her chest. The giddiness of the laboratory has fled her; she is aware of Lionel’s laconic figure among the lindens, of the strength of passion in Herr Schulmann’s gaze. “Then why do you speak of it as inevitable?”
For an instant, Herr Schulmann glances at the moon-shadowed trees, where Lionel and Herr von Karlow are still speaking. “Because there are those in the government, those in the military especially, who welcome war. Who believe that a decisive battle is the only way for Germany to rid herself of this encirclement. Who are convinced that an early war, before our enemies gain any further strength, is to be brought forward on any pretext.” Herr Schulmann finishes his port, sets down the glass, and reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. “Do you mind, Mrs. Grant?”
“Not at all.” Despite the warm air, Violet’s hands are cold. She finishes her own port and watches Herr Schulmann’s elegantly nervous fingers as he shakes a cigarette from its gold case and strikes a match against the stone. The flame sends a lurid shadow chasing across his face. Nearby, the Comtesse de Saint-Honoré’s laugh pirouettes in the twilight air. Walter has pulled his chair closer to Jane’s, and his elbows rest attentively on his thighs as he leans toward her. Violet takes in all these details, all these filaments of her life, woven together in some audacious new pattern that snatches her breath with its possibilities.
“I disagree with my colleagues, Mrs. Grant,” says Herr Schulmann, with another quick glance at the lindens, from which Herr von Karlow’s voice rises with growing urgency. “I think a general war would be disastrous for Germany, for Europe, and for humanity. But mine is a lonely voice.”
“I am very sorry to hear that.”
“No man is more loyal to Germany than I am, Mrs. Grant. I only wish I might save her from herself.” He looks at her again, his gaze pressing into hers, as if he’s trying to explain something vital.
“I wish you can, Herr Schulmann,” Violet says. She lays her palms against her dress. Von Karlow’s voice rises angrily to her left, and a second later his feet strike hard on the terrace steps. He passes them both in a gust of startled air. “I wish you can.”
? ? ?
VIOLET FINDS LIONEL in his usual spot, among the rose trellises. Night has enclosed the garden, and she feels her way along, scraping her fingers against the thorns, until she catches the scent of Lionel’s cigarette and stops, waiting for his shadow to detach from the darkness.
His hand reaches her first, drawing her next to him. “There you are.”
“I’m sorry. The Germans left; I had to see them off.”
“My fault, I’m afraid.” He laughs softly, and she can see him now, the whites of his shirt and tie finding the moonlight at last. Something brushes her cheek. “I’ve plucked you a rose, if only to annoy you.”
She reaches up and takes it from his fingers. “The poor thing.”
“Either way, it will wither and die.”
“Like your everlasting regard?”
“Well, there it is, anyway.” He thrusts one hand in his pocket and leans against the trellis, mindless of thorns. “Yours to keep. You can always dry it and place it between the leaves of your diary.”
“I don’t have a diary. Not for personal things, anyway. I have my scientific journals.”
“Yes, of course. What a pair we’ll make for the historians of the future. Not a scrap of personal sentiment left behind to incriminate us.”
“We’ve done nothing criminal.” The air is cool among the roses, but Violet is flushed and warm. Her dress itches against her skin. She takes a step back, away from Lionel.
“No, we haven’t. Not yet.” The faint orange end of his cigarette moves up to his lips, flares, and moves away. He waits, as always, for Violet to speak next, to say the words that will set everything into motion.
“What did you say to poor von Karlow?” asks Violet. “He was very angry.”
Lionel shrugs. “He wanted me to admit that the Allies were in the wrong, that poor old Germany was persecuted and encircled. Einkreisung, the old word. He’s not entirely wrong, that’s the devil of it.”
Violet tears a leaf from the stem of her rose.
“And you, Violet? What were you discussing so intently with our good Herr Schulmann?”
“The same thing, I suppose, except that he doesn’t want war. He was almost pleading with me, as if I could do something about it.” She allows a bitter laugh. “I, an American scientist, married to an Englishman, with no interest whatsoever in politics.”
Lionel straightens. “What did he say, exactly?”
“I don’t remember exactly. That he wished he could save Germany from herself, or something like that.”
“Did he?” Lionel exhales a slow stream of smoke and drops his spent cigarette into the paving stone, soft with lichen. He moves his foot to crush out the last of the glow. “That’s good of him.”
Lionel’s body rests a very few inches away, electric with life, blood racing and cells dividing. Here and present before her, with a vital force that might grasp Violet by the shoulders and shake her awake.
“Will there really be a war, Lionel? It doesn’t seem possible.”