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Jasper weaves through the village's side streets then down English countryside back lanes as they drive in tense silence.
Beside him, Eleanor is silently stewing because in hindsight she can't believe that it was so easy for her brother talk her into leaving with the overly self-assured, deceitful, manipulative asshole beside her, who despite the fact that he's been occupying her bed for over two weeks, is still an entirely unknown quantity.
And as the miles mount up and they creep ever further away from her brother who is the one known in a whirlwind of uncertainty and unknowns the more the feeling of panic that won't be stifled inside her chest starts to mount.
Every time they round a corner she is imagines a tank or a checkpoint, and her nerves are on edge a hundred fold.
And occasionally they see a set of lights in the distance, and Jasper pulls over into a field and creeps behind a hedge until the lights pass.
"Where are we going?," Eleanor questions, after they've been driving in silence for a good twenty minutes.
"Wherever they won't think to look," Jasper answers her, and she can't help but notice his calm complacency is in stark contrast to her shattered nerves.
"You like this, don't you?" she questions, sharply.
He smirks. "It has a certain challenge."
"Like possible death," Eleanor mutters back, and he doesn't miss the edge in her voice.
He glances back at her. "I won't let them catch us. We'll be fine," he tells her, but he can't help but tighten his grip on the wheel, because he doesn't always keep his promises. But for her, he will.
"And Robbie. Will he be fine too?" and even as the question tumbles out of her mouth, she wants to take it back because she knows she sounds desperate and uncertain, begging him to tell her he'll be fine too.
"He knows what he's doing I think," he replies back.
She let's out a breath she didn't even know she'd been holding in and settles back into her seat.
They drive on, bumping along the country lanes, and Jasper drives as quickly as he dares with the lights switched off.
Eleanor's nerves start to settle but she's watchful, looking out in front of them and out her window, watching for any unseen hazards or soldiers.
They pass through little thatched cottages, with perfect country gardens and fields of sheep next door and pretty hedgerowed lanes illuminated by moonlight.
"I like it here," Eleanor says dreamily, smiling to herself as they pass a little stone church near a river.
Jasper grunts in reply, and somehow that seems to encourage Eleanor to talk some more.
"You know when we were little we used to have an estate here which we would come to in the summertime. And I had a pony. Liam had a horse too and we would race each other around the paddock and I always won," she's talking more to herself than him, staring off into the moonlit darkness outside.
Normally she keeps these memories to herself – she has to – but holding on to them is the only way she can remember that part of her she's in danger of forgetting.
Her next question startles him.
"You know you always call me normally call me Princess but then when we're in bed and you come you call me Eleanor. Why do you do that?" she asks, turning towards him, frowning.
Because the first time he'd done that, the sound of her own name on his lips was strange, confusing and somehow thrilling because no one, not even her brothers, used her real name now, and it had been well over a dozen years since anyone had uttered it.
"Because that's your name," he tells her, as if he's stating the obvious. And also he likes the way it sounds. It suits her. But he doesn't tell her that.
"No one calls me that anymore," she replies. "No one is allowed to now," she adds.
Not since she was taken from the Palace.
When she was a child, she hated her name. Thought it was old-fashioned and boring and she wanted to be called Jenny or Anna or something modern.
But somehow the way he says it makes it sound right.
"No one except me," he replies back at her in the dark.
And she almost goes to agree with him but then she remembers when he says her name and she bites her lip to stop herself.
And naturally he has to go and ruin whatever progress they happened to have made by deciding at that precise moment to put his hand on her knee and slide it northwards.
She slaps his hand away, sharply. "Just focus on the bloody road, will you," she orders.
"I can multitask," he tells her, boldly.
"You can't multitask if you're trying to drive and put your hand up my skirt while I'm slapping you in the face," Eleanor points out sourly.
He withdraws his hand. "We can take this up later if you really insist," he tells her, complacently.
"I most definitely don't insist," Eleanor bites back crossly. "And you should be on some kind of register," she snaps.
A grin flashes across his face. "I am wanted in several US states you know," he tells her.
Her head snaps around and she glares back at him because yes, he definitely sounds proud of himself here.
"I should have guessed," she mutters loudly.
She would say more but something in the distance catches her eye. "There's a truck up ahead there," she points. "You should take the next side road."
"A ha. Despite the fact I'm American I am actually capable of working out for myself that its probably not a good idea to drive directly into it," Jasper tells her dryly, as he starts to make the turn.
"Yes well, I don't know how well you people are educated over there. If indeed you are educated at all," Eleanor replies snobbily.
It's getting late and they have a lot of ground to cover, so in the interests of his own santity he elects not to continue this discussion, and instead he decides to tune her out and press his foot harder down on the accelerator.
They drive until dawn nears and then Jasper pulls up just off the road.
Eleanor's exhausted but still awake and she doesn't miss the symbol scrawled on the letterbox in front of her, which is probably what drew Jasper here in the first place.
"Stay here, and if a vehicle comes by get behind those trees," he orders pointing to where she has to go.
"Ok," Eleanor nods, because he sounds deadly serious.
She sits in the car in silence for five minutes before he returns.
He doesn't say a word but starts up the car and drives slowly into the driveway which leads to a little cottage behind a high hedge.
"Open the gate," he orders.
Eleanor's not used to be being talked to that way. "Who me?" she questions, offended.
"Yes, you Princess, its not like there's anyone else in this vehicle, is it?," he rolls his eyes.
She huffs, still annoyed both by the way he orders her around and also because this is yet another example of how he is singularly lacking any sort of gentlemanly qualities.
But then what would you expect from an American?
After a moment she gets out, making sure to slam the door loudly, and opens the gate.
He drives through, and, typically self-centred, doesn't bother to stop to pick her up again so that she has to walk the remaining 20 metres herself.
By the time she reaches the door, he's already been there for ten seconds and has somehow managed to open the door without leaving any evidence he was there in the first place.
She follows him inside.
The house is humble, and has obviously been unoccupied for a number of years, going by the dust built up in the windowsills and tables.
If this were a more elegant home and more spacious than just two simple bedrooms, a small parlour, a kitchen and basic bathroom, then it would have been reallocated and occupied.
Eleanor wanders towards the mantelpiece and picks up a photo. A dark haired man with glasses, his pretty wife, their baby and a small boy wearing a little bow tie and a pair of glasses matching his father's smile back at her.
"Where do you think the family are now?" she asks, turning towards Jasper.
"Dead," he replies, starkly.
"You can't believe that. You can't say that," Eleanor's denial is sudden and absolute.
Because officially Jewish families were relocated to labour camps in the far reaches of the Reich. In places far, far away. But unofficially some people whispered that maybe they never got there at all. Even though to even suggest such a thing could land you in prison.
But she couldn't believe that anything so terrible could be true. Because there were millions of them, and surely millions of people couldn't just vanish?
Jasper doesn't reply, only turns away from her and heads for the kitchen.
Eleanor stands in the middle of the room, still with the picture in her hand. And she can't help but shudder.
She sets it down, feeling suddenly exhausted. "I'm tired. I'll sleep in the car," she announces.
Jasper shrugs, as he examines the cupboards carefully. "Suit yourself."
"I will," she tells him, and she does.
By the time she wakes it's well past lunch and the sun is shining gloriously on a warm summer's day.
She pulls herself upright feeling disorientated. Her hip hurts from where the stick has been poking into her and her dress is hiked up near her waist.
She pulls herself together and dusts her dress down then heads inside, wandering from room to room.
If they are going to stay here, then someone is going to have to clean this place up. Someone who is preferably not her.
The far bedroom is the only room with the door shut and she pauses by it before pushes it open and silently stepping inside.
He's crashed out lying across the double bed haphazardly, with an arm across his face.
Typically even though the bed should accommodate two he's taking up nearly all the available space, having thrown himself across it in a diagonal position.
His shirt is half undone and she can see part of his golden muscled torso along with a hint of chest hair.
She steps closer, watching him. Part of her longs to lift her hand and run it down his chest.
But she doesn't and after a moment longer she steps away, shutting the door behind her.
In the parlour, a whiskey decanter and glass sits on the table top as evidence of Jasper's presence before he went to bed.
Eleanor picks up the decanter and pours herself a glass.
And then she spies it, tucked away just underneath a bookshelf.
It's a film projector. She bends down, picks it up and puts it on the table top.
Then she heads for the car and pulls open the back door, opening her bag and searching down under her clothes to the very bottom of the case, pulling up the fake lining and digging her fingers underneath.
She extracts the small parcel wrapped in black cloth and carries it carefully inside.
She's not skilled at setting up the projector and it takes her two goes before she loops it correctly.
And then she sits herself down in an empty armchair facing a blank wall, waiting expectantly for the film to start so that she can see something she was told that under no circumstances she should watch.