Life was dismal and chaotic for Jamie and his fellow prisoners of war those first few weeks, as golden August turned into a wet, unseasonably cool September. The Germans were uncharacteristically disorganized when it came to dealing with both the officers and the enlisted men whom they had captured. Wisely, they had immediately separated foot soldiers from the men who led them, reasoning that without the formidable brains and strict, unwavering discipline of British officers, the less educated rank and file of men would be less likely to attempt escape. But the enemy had not been prepared for the sheer number of prisoners taken-and that so early in the conflict—and thus were not adequately provisioned for even the barest needs of their captives. It wasn't unusual for the unfortunate Brits—officers and enlisted menalike—to receive just the one meagre, midday meal each day, while being forced to march in rain and fog towards Germany. Certainly, the Germans foraged for supplies while on the move, but there was rarely enough to supplement their own needs, let alone to satisfy the hunger and thirst of the men in their charge. Jamie was pretty sure that he and his fellow officers were provided a cut above what little the common soldiers received—and was grateful for that, at least.

Having spent time at resorts on the Baltic during two of his summer holidays from university, Jaime had a fair grasp of the German tongue—but he kept that fact to himself, making a point of seeking out English speaking officers when the need to communicate arose. Believing him to be ignorant of their language, a share of German officers and their subordinates spoke freely in his presence, so that he was able to glean information that might be of future use to him. In this way, Jamie was also able to learn how the war was going, and he realized before too long that the hopes that he (and like-minded military experts back in London) had held were badly miscalculated. He found that realization humbling, frightening—and devastating, when he remembered his egoistic confidence as he led his men to disaster and death. He knew he was extremely lucky to have survived, though the inescapable guilt of his folly and hubris had him wishing sometimes for a share of ignorant bliss.

Jamie managed as best he could, to discover the fates of his closest friends from his defeated cadre, through whispered conversations on the sly whenever he encountered a familiar face in line for the latrine, or as he sat resting on the ground roadside, waiting for the distribution of what little water was allotted him. He had seen with his own eyes that Charlie Lively had been injured, though not seriously, and had known that the lieutenant had been taken from the field by ambulance, as were at least a half dozen others that Jamie had considered friends. Those he had no word of worried his heart—especially regarding his mate, Jim Nicholls, with whom he'd served the longest. With each name confirmed as captured, each name confirmed as fallen, his guilt for the imprudence of that disastrous charge weighed upon him heavily.

Two weeks or so into this forced march, Jamie fell ill, likely due to a combination of unrelenting damp, exhaustion, and malnourishment. His throat felt like he was swallowing broken glass at the height of his illness, and he ran a nearly constant fever—but given the situation, there was nothing to be done for it; he would simply have to carry on, tight-lipped and uncomplaining in the tradition of his people. Eventually, though, one of the more sympathetic German officers noticed his plight, and offered him a small tin cup half-filled with whiskey, as Jamie and the other prisoners prepared to bed down for the night in an abandoned barn in near the French-Belgian border. Jamie took it gratefully, and though it wasn't proper medicine, on his empty stomach it warmed him enough to allow him to slip into an unbroken sleep. As he gradually faded into blessed unconsciousness, his mind began to untether from his harsh reality, effortlessly calling forth recent sunny days in the company of good friends. Evenings spent indulging in harmless vices while on leave in London. Warm memories of he and his mates swaggering about the city as though they owned the night; only the best food and drink for them, only the prettiest women to flirt with—and if lucky, to dandle such congenial lasses upon their laps for a time. He and Jim and Charlie, with Padraic O'Brien and Oliver Kent, looking smart in their uniforms (ever a magnet for the ladies), all of them flush with the privilege of their class, and with the unwavering certainty that their destinies could only ever be golden.

The whiskey warmed his blood as he lay on a bed of stale straw covered in a threadbare blanket, anesthetizing not only his physical discomfort, but also the shame and grief that bedeviled his soul when silence filled the night. He could almost hear the laughter of his friends, taste the smart sting of the top-shelf bourbon on his tongue. An evening that had been warm, and full of potential, and at some point Nicholls had suggested that take in a show. As the others readily agreed, Jamie—who would've preferred other diversions—went along, rather than be left to find amusement on his own.

They ended up at a musical revue playing at the Apollo, fifteen minutes past curtain, but a little extra cash bought them prime seats in a state box, just a few feet away and to the left of the stage. The review was pleasant enough, with a plethora of charming showgirls dancing about, trilling sweetly—though there seemed nothing much to distinguish them one from the other. Slightly bored, Jamie had been counting down the minutes until the interval, planning to suggest they move on to his club and search out a fine game of poker. The stage lights had been dimmed, to hide the stagehands moving set pieces about, and then only a spotlight came up, with a single figure caught in its beam. A dark-haired beauty, her long, thick braid cast across her shoulder, a dress of pale gold draped about her figure as though she was a Grecian goddess; fair skin with cheeks pinked naturally, perhaps enhanced with stage makeup. Long, dark lashes that framed demurely downcast eyes, as the first strains of the violins began. Dark pink lips, soon made all the sweeter for the voice that arose from them. The entire house was silent and waiting—and with her first notes, Jamie was entranced.

The piece sounded ancient, sorrowful, longing, and based upon the haunting melody and archaic lyrics, he found himself wondering if it was indeed some old, Celtic love song. The spotlight tracked her as she swayed to the music, as she sang beseechingly of love, loss, and desperation. Her voice rose in a clear contralto, with none of those eardrum piercing notes one might hear with a pure, self-aggrandizing soprano-and when she fell into the lower register of her vocal range, coupled with the evocative words and tune-it was enough to make a man wonder...to make him wonder...how it would be to hear that voice speaking forbidden desires in the soft, dark night. She cast her eyes upon those in the front rows held rapt by her musical spell; it seemed she held each man she gazed upon in thrall, before shifting her glance unto another. Ethereal and sorrowing she seemed, lost in nearly unendurable longing. Jamie thought her voice lovelier than any he'd heard in ages. And then she raised her eyes to his.

He was close enough to see their deep blue fringed by soft, dark lashes, close enough to be certain that her eyes had noted him, had picked him out especially, and he flattered himself enough to think she was actually singing to him. His stomach seemed to plummet to his feet as he felt a strange spark of recognition, and for a single breath he could have sworn her eyes widened as though she recognized him as well. She held his gaze for several lyrical lines, and when she turned away, to face the state box opposite their own, he had the ridiculous urge to call her back; to implore her to sing the remainder of her song to him alone. And then she was done, her final notes fading into silence, even as she sank into a deep curtsy to the crowd, while the applause grew, and the theatre filled with shouts of encore from at least a dozen men. Surely an enchantress, he murmured under his breath, dazed as the spotlight closed around her, stunned at his own very uncharacteristic poetry of thought, as the houselights came up in full.

Jamie remained seated a moment, while his companions began to file out of the state box on their way to stretch their legs and grab a quick cigarette. Jim clapped him on the shoulder, drawing him out of his reverie, "Coming with, Jamie?"

Roused from his stupor, he shook his head curtly, and cleared his throat, "Uh…of course…I'll…I'll be out in just a minute."

Nicholls withdrew his hand, and left with the others, while Jamie pulled the folded programme from his pocket, running down the list of musical numbers to discover the name of the songstress who had bewitched him so. Fannie, he mouthed, Fannie Moore. He liked the feel of her name immediately, enjoying the play of it on his tongue. Suddenly, his desire to be anywhere but there had dissipated, replaced with a pleasant anticipation of what the second act might bring.

He joined the others shortly for a smoke, and they shared around Padraic's pocket flask of whiskey (emptying it all too soon), but he did not mention his unexpected fascination with Miss Moore—not only because he thought it rather shocking and unseemly of himself, but also because he knew that they would surely take the mickey out of him if they knew.

Jamie kept his eyes riveted to the stage for the remainder of the show, searching for his pretty songbird trouping among the lesser beauties—disappointed when she did not appear, eagerly drinking her in when she did. He could not honestly judge if she shone brighter than the other chorus girls because of her beauty and talent—or if it was his sudden, wholehearted attraction to her that elevated her every moment on the stage, far, far above the rest. Jamie only knew for certain that he'd be satisfied to have Miss Fannie Moore take the stage all for herself, and leave the others to fritter their time away in the wings.

They left the theatre afterwards and grabbed a late supper at a restaurant (which Jamie would be hard pressed to even name, as his mind had lingered elsewhere), and then ended their night at The Duke of York, a pub on Charring Cross Road, favored by countless cavalrymen since the Second Boer War. Jamie was quick to lay down his brass for the first round, but remained unusually silent as his friends laughed and drank the hours away until last call. If any of his boys had noticed his preoccupation, they said not a word.

Back in the comfort of his family home, nightcap in hand, he sat in the bedroom of his youth (seldom used since his boarding school days) and found his mind returning again and again to that single, striking moment...to the deep blue of her eyes...and to that strange but not unpleasant sense of recognition he had felt when those soft, lovely eyes met his own. It was the damnedest feeling, and when he finally laid down and pulled the comforter over himself, it seemed to be keeping him from sleep.

Only one way to deal with this, he decided, man of action that he was; exasperated and restless, Jamie rose from his bed, and headed to the secretary tucked beneath the eave that overlooked the street. Grumbling over lost sleep, he rummaged through the drawers for suitable paper and a fountain pen, carefully composing his thoughts.

Dear Miss Moore,

You must pardon my presumption in writing to you, though we are not acquainted-but I find myself dwelling, with an involuntary insistence, upon your performance of the evening past. More specifically, upon your extraordinary solo performance. It seems to have struck a chord within me that continues to resound even now, and well past what I deem as reasonable.

I thought perhaps-if you would be amenable-we might meet for a late dinner this evening, so that I might compliment you in person. The Savoy offers the finest chateaubriand in London, which I shall order ahead to ensure it will be ready upon your arrival-say 10:30, as your final curtain call appears to fall shortly before 10pm. Simply ask for my table; I will await you there, with the highest hopes you will not disappoint me. Until that time, let me assure you that I hold you in my most profound esteem-and that you have quite overthrown my typical behavior in regards to your fair sex.

I remain your humble servant,

Major James Stewart

Fifth Cavalry, Buckingham

He read the letter through twice, soon satisfied that it had struck the proper tone. Come the day, he would see it delivered to the Apollo, along with a generous bouquet of roses as proof of his sincerity. His plan in place, Jamie found sleep easily—speculating as he fell, what flavor he might find, were he lucky enough to sample the beguiling lady's lips.

He spent the afternoon seeing to the necessary arrangements; having the flowers and his missive sent along to the theatre, reserving a secluded table at the restaurant, ensuring that all the details of their meal were set. At no point had he even considered that the lady might find him far too forward to acquiesce to his request, certain in his bones that he was meant to gaze into her captivating blue eyes by candlelight, and to hear her speak his name in soft flirtation. With the evening, Jamie had to beg off when Charlie and Jim had come to call upon him; in so many words—without directly lying—he had intimated that his parents required his presence for the night in regard to some pressing family business. They left disappointed, but with no clue as to his true intent for the evening.

Jamie had toyed with the idea of wearing his parade blues, as further insurance to impress the young lady, but in the end he settled for his everyday dress uniform instead. And although he had not planned on it, he found himself drawn back to the Apollo, to purchase a ticket on the mezzanine, six rows from the stage, to sit in the anonymous darkness—curious to see if he might feel the same enchantment with the charming Fannie Moore, upon a second viewing.

And sure enough, he did. He realized—to a mix of consternation, delight, and heavenly anticipation—that he was very much under the lady's spell…

For the first time since he had left England, Jamie had been sleeping soundly enough that it took one of the other captured officers to shake him awake. How reluctantly he came to, trying to remain in a dream that was the dearest comfort he could have imagined—and though he felt well rested, and his fever had finally broken, he immediately craved a return to that same ephemeral bliss. He groaned, remembering himself and his pitiful situation, and then stretched and sat up, running a hand through his mussed hair and then scratching the infernal itch of the involuntary growth of whiskers on his cheeks and chin. Good god, I miss her! Of all the things I've ever missed, I'm missing her the most. He shut his eyes, conjuring a vision of his sweet Fan to stand against the misery of his captivity, clinging for just that little while longer to the memories his dream had stirred.

She had not disappointed him that mid-June night. Barely three months past, he reminded himself, recalling how he had risen from his seat the moment he had spotted the maître d' escorting her to their table. Fannie had worn a slight, bemused smile as she drew near, her eyes wide in her appraisal of him. Jamie answered by straightening into his most formal military stance, and assuming his full height, along with the air of authority and confidence that made him a formidable commander of men.

He was hyper aware as the seconds played out, as she moved with a grace already familiar to him. Fannie's velvety, dark hair had been redressed into a loose French braid, ornamented with a pair of rhinestone combs that glittered when they caught the light—though the light of her eyes, rich with honest mirth, was far more compelling. She was dark sapphire silk, and midnight blue satin, and wore a matching velvet stole fringed in cream, modestly covering her shoulders—though somehow, Jamie was certain she would let slide that stole for him, as their evening together progressed. Fannie Moore was clearly no mere dance hall girl; she was well aware of her beauty, and would not commit fawning modesty in order to fit in with society's ideal of femininity. He felt it impossible not to want her for his own.

The maître d' went before her, pulling out her chair, though she declined to sit just yet, murmuring her thanks, and dismissing him with a full, pretty smile—before turning that smile upon Jamie. "Major Stewart," she said, inclining her head softly, and holding out a satin-gloved hand to him.

"Miss Moore," he acknowledged, bowing his head just a little, and then raised her offered hand enough to brush his lips against her knuckles. He did not release her hand just yet, and took a step closer. "Thank you for joining me this evening."

Fannie raised her chin, sizing him up, and answered cheekily, "Please know, Major Stewart, that I do not normally make a habit of accepting dinner invitations from strange men—no matter how charmingly they are delivered." Her lips were soft with a pert smile.

He was taken aback for a breath or two, as her accent revealed her to be an American—thus whetting his interest in her even more. Making her even more of a fascinating mystery to be unraveled. Jamie quirked her a half smile and a single arched brow, "Then I must have been born beneath a lucky star, for here you are nonetheless." Her hand still rested lightly upon his, so that he dared running his thumb along the backs of her fingers.

"Yes," she sighed, glancing down at their joined hands, "I suppose some rules are meant to be broken. On occasion." Fannie met his eyes again, gracing him with a slight but satisfied smile, "In this case I was urged to do so …" Jamie narrowed his eyes in query, so that she gave an easy explanation, "Let us just say that the curiosity of my friends in the cast—in your regard—begged to be satisfied…and I was loathe to disappoint them." She gave a small shrug, and Jamie marveled that she appeared both innocent and coy at the same time.

"Of course," he murmured, moving closer, liking even the tilt of her head as she looked up at him, "Then I sincerely hope—for their sake, as well as our own—that I can give you enough reason to be satisfied."

Her gaze was bold as she nodded softly, and she drew a tremulous sigh—spurring him to wonder how much of the moment was the artifice of an actress, and how much it might be the true nature of the woman herself. Either way, he was determined to learn the answer.

Not allowing him to dwell in that moment, Fannie lowered her lashes, averting her eyes to the table beside them, reminding him that they were there to dine. Jamie released her hand, and moved past her, allowing her to sit before pushing her chair into the table. As he sat himself, the wine steward moved in quickly, and as arranged for, set a brass wine stand beside their table, uncorked the bottle and poured a small amount of the deep red liquid into a goblet, presenting it for Jaime's approval. Jamie savored the wine for a few moments, and then nodded to the sommelier, who then filled both glasses before retiring from their table.

Jamie raised his glass, and Fannie followed suit. "A toast, then, Miss Moore—shall we say…to the satisfaction of friends?"

She laughed in appreciation, sweetly, naturally, and quite winningly, so that Jamie vowed to find whatever opportunity he could to draw her laughter forth again. "Yes, Major Stewart…of friends indeed…and perhaps…" Her eyes had caught the candlelight exactly as he had been imagining, and her voice was rife with sublime, unspoken promises, "Perhaps that of new acquaintances as well." She tapped her crystal glass against his own, and brought it to her pretty lips—and he found himself heartily wishing to taste the wine upon them, as well as her own flavor, against his own…

Lost in his memories, Jamie had moved about his morning tasks, dressing, then washing his face in the cold water in the trough outside the barn, and then rolling his blankets and makeshift pillow (fashioned from a musty flour sack, and filled with new hay whenever he had the opportunity), securing it with the leather strap that had once served to hold his sidearm in place. He accepted the chunk of stale bread provided him, and an unexpected cup of coffee, before falling into his place in line for the continued trek to whatever prison camp lay at the end of their interminable march. And he kept good time, feeling better than he had in days thanks to a full night's sleep, and the added jolt of caffeine—for his mind was where his heart rested, at least for this day…and even the intermittent drizzle on the forced march could not dull or dampen the quiet warmth inside his chest, kindled by the memories of that dinner—and the delicious hours in the days and nights that had followed…