One evening, the radio stays on past 8. German troops are marching into Paris. The three younger children are already in bed; the older two, hard at work on a model on the sitting room carpet, look up at Audrey with wide eyes when the news is announced. Her face is drawn and pale. Her knitting rests in her lap, forgotten. She stares at the radio as if willing the words to be drawn back into the speakers.

Siegfried stiffens in his chair. He looks at Audrey quickly, seeking her eyes to share the weight of the anxiety that he knows grips them both. Her gaze, however, remains fixed on the radio. The initial broadcast transitions to a report from the city itself. The presenter's voice shakes slightly as German-accented French resonates in the background.

Audrey stands abruptly and gestures the children toward the stairs. "To bed now, you two. It's past your bedtime."

Normally they might protest, but tonight they obey wordlessly, wide-eyed. She follows them up the stairs, an unusual occurrence. They are both glad of it. She sits with them for a while after they pull the covers to their chins and reads to them from A. .

"Mrs. Hall," Christine asks in a small voice, as Audrey closes the cover on the book and stands to turn out the light, "will the Germans come to get us too?"

Audrey's heart drops at the bewildered fear in the little girls voice. She sits down again and smoothes the hair from Christine's face.

"I don't know," she says gently, "none of us can know that for sure. But I choose to have faith that they will not."

She looks over at Peter, trying and failing to act brave in his too-big pajamas. "We must all keep that faith, and be as brave as we can, and keep living our lives with hope. And pray, pray hard. Shall we pray now?"

The small heads nod, and she bows hers with them.

Siegfried watches them leave the room, affection bringing an incongruous smile to his face even while the radio presenter begins to translate the damning words being heard all over Paris. Even in the face of such horror, his housekeeper still manages to tend to others before herself, and to bring normalcy to terrible times like these. Without her giving marching orders, he suspects the house would devolve into chaos in minutes. An urge to care for her and comfort her sweeps over him; if she was in front of him now, he would put his arms around her. It catches him off guard, but oddly doesn't surprise him. Holding her seems right. They are confidantes, helpmates, partners; she knows and sees him better than anyone else alive. They belong to each other in so many small ways. It is a natural, inevitable development that now, in this most terrible of moments, he seeks the comfort of her arms.

Siegfried has been staring into space for a quarter hour at least, sifting through the strange and confusing combination of grief over the news from Paris, anxiety for the safety of his senior vet, and yearning to hold his housekeeper in his arms, when he hears her coming down the stairs. He stands and switches off the wireless, and watches her walk slowly to the last step, leaning heavily on the railing. She stares blankly ahead, fingering the crucifix around her neck. He moves toward her, stopping a few feet away. He's not sure what to say; there's nothing to say. She looks at him, finally meeting his eyes, and for a moment neither moves, sharing without words the fear, uncertainty, and futile desperation coursing through them both.

They move toward each other in unison. She sighs shudderingly as his arms close around her, surprised by the tears springing to her eyes. Until this moment, she felt numb and self-possessed. Now, almost against her will, she lets her guard down, and sinks into the embrace without hesitation.

She smells like soap, the herbs she used in dinner that night, and clean wool. He breathes deeply, heart rate slowing. Through the shock and grief, he is certain that come what may, they will take care of each other. He will take better care of her. He has lagged behind her in that department. The circumstances of her employment dictate that it be so, but he knows it's more than that; since when have they kept to the boundaries of a professional relationship? If she will let him (a big if, he reflects, with a fond flicker of mirth) he will do more for her.

Audrey is aware that she will blush over this moment tomorrow, and likely spend hours in reflection over what it means, but for now, she allows herself just to be held and comforted by him. The waves of pain are buffered when she is with him, her hopelessness tempered by his presence.

Jess, watching from the hall, senses that all is well. She pads over and lies down at their feet.

The study clock chimes 9:00, interrupting their embrace. Audrey pulls back slightly, though doesn't step away, wiping her eyes.

"Goodness! 9:00 already," she says, more to dissipate her self-consciousness than because there's anything surprising about the time. Siegfried watches her closely with the familiar softness and concern in his eyes that he turns on her whenever she's trying to avoid feeling too much. He always seems to know. She always feels exposed by that look, and this evening it's more raw and intent than ever. His hands still rest gently on her elbows. She sniffles, fishing for her handkerchief to avoid meeting his eyes. The handkerchief, as ever, is neatly folded in her dress pocket where it belongs. She dabs her nose and peers around as if trying to locate Jess, feeling vulnerable but not quite ready to overtly push Siegfried away. He knows her too well and declines to take the hint.

"James is a smart man, Mrs. Hall, and a fighter. I'm sure Helen will hear from him again soon. Maybe she already has."

She smiles weakly at him, drying the last of the tears from her face. "I suppose all we can do is wait and hope. And ration the last of the whiskey as best we can!"

He smiles, affection all over his face. She wishes he wasn't such an open book at moments like this; she feels shy and unsure what to do with herself in the face of his care for her. Besides which, the look in his eyes and the warmth of his hands on her arms triggers a strange, though not unpleasant, feeling that mixes oddly with the dread in the pit of her stomach.

Feeling like he's approaching an unsteady ledge, but determined to speak, Siegfried rallies himself for one more push against the walls she always raises.

"We will take care of each other, Audrey. Whatever comes, you won't be alone." His voice is soft and tender.

Perhaps it is the emotional intensity of the evening, his use of her Christian name, or having the children's example in the house, always ready to express whatever emotions they feel. Whatever the reason, she doesn't raise her walls just yet. Instead, she meets his eyes.

"Yes," she says, quietly. "And nor will you."

They gaze at each other for a moment, each strengthened by the presence of the other. Both find themselves fielding the impulse to come together again. Audrey, not prepared to indulge the impulse, gives a final sniff and sigh. "Tea?"

He nods and smiles and lets her go this time, watching her until she disappears down the hall toward the kitchen. He continues to stare absently at the empty doorway for a long moment, listening to the familiar sounds of her filling the kettle and scooping out the tea leaves. Now that she's gone, the weight of the evening's bad news descends again, but it's easier to hold than it was before. He finds he wants to be as close to Audrey as possible, in all meanings of the phrase. The feeling is strangely familiar and, now that the physical aspect has been partially indulged, unmistakable. He wonders how many times he's felt it over the years they've lived together without acknowledging its depth. Despite the potentially groundbreaking implications of the revelation, his only cogent thought is, how interesting.