LONDON - Grey Goose Gentlemen's Club - The major domo had never seen a man of such height in all his forty-five years in service to the Grey Goose. Well-bred English noblemen simply weren't grown to such a height, such a breadth of chest. It seemed, somehow, in poor taste.

This non-member had actually had to significantly bow his head to avoid the street-level entrance transom. Well-over six foot four, if he was an inch. One felt pity for his tailor, for surely such a man had to employ a tailor. Indubitably the shops, even as varied and numerous as those in London, could not possibly carry such ludicrously sized garments ready-made, as this Philistinian Goliath must require.

The voice, really, was no better, gruff and overly expressive. At moments it seemed given toward a bit, even, of a honk.

The man had chosen to pay his visit to the Club in his uniform, and therefore, in such a time of international turmoil, allowances must be made. Such (ahem) gentlemen must be tolerated, and treated courteously.

It came as no surprise that Naval Commander Ron Legg (as he introduced himself, handing over, not even, a card to do so) was here for the Club's (only-recently become) most colorful member, the (once sedate, dependable, appropriate) Earl of Huntingdon.

The major domo did his duty, and showed the fellow personally to one of the meeting rooms, sending a footman to alert Sir Robert that his visitor was there. As the giant trailed (surprisingly unclumsily) behind him, through forest after forest of leather chairs and elaborately carved mahogany occasional tables, games of slow chess, seas of opened newspapers obscuring their readers, trays of cigars and legions of perfectly polished, impeccably tied wingtips, Grey Goose's major domo could not have known this hulk of humanity enjoyed regular access to Windsor Castle, and the royal family's Scottish estates. That he was not unfamiliar with the King and Queen at high (and also at far less-formal) tea, nor that solely on account of the war he had resigned his post as head of the Princess Elizabeth's Private Guard.

When the major domo left Naval Commander Legg in the meeting room, its brass library lights needlessly illuminating the bare barrister's table in front of him, he noted the man was actually unbuttoning his uniform coat down to the collared shirt underneath.

He closed his eyes, wishing he had not see it, before he soundlessly pulled the door closed. Ah, but here came the Earl. This man (and his clearly savage ways) would be his worry for the moment. With that calming knowledge, the major domo returned immediately to the podium, relieving the valet he had left attending on the street-level door.

"Sir," the Earl began, once he and his unexpected guest were seated, "I confess, I am not sure why you have sought me out."

"Please," Legg asked, "call me Ron, my lord, or, Legg, if you like. I had thought to write to you, but in the end I have procrastinated and my time is short, so I must beg a face-to-face interview with you."

"Certainly, Mr.-Legg. I find I am at my leisure until nearly three o'clock today. My time is yours entirely. You do seem troubled. I wonder, have we met?"

"No, Sir Robert. We have not, but as I am in His Majesty's service, I have made acquaintances with several gents what know you. Clem Nighten, for instance. He recently shared with me that you have been taking in refugees and displaced children, mostly boys, but that you had also invited his expectant wife to your country estate."

"Yes," the Earl responded mildly, in no rush to hurry the interview along, "that is true."

"Well, Sir," Legg's demeanor became less casual, more intent. "I find myself in a peculiar line of business, now, and my boy Mark will be needing a safe place to stay. He has been with me two years now, just outside London, but my new orders (of which I am not obliged to share about) clearly state that I may be called off at a moment's notice to duty, and as you know my rank is Naval Commander, the particular duty will prove far from London or hereabouts."

The Earl's eyebrows flicked up. "And your Mark has no family?"

"We are all that's left, Sir. Him and me."

The Earl's brow furrowed with the need to ask a probing question. "...And the mother?"

"Oh. Yes, Sir. I did not say. Mark is my nephew. He is not my rightful son, though I have full legal guardianship of him. His mother and father, my brother, were buried in the Blitz." His mouth drew together in a line with the memory. "'Twas only Mark that got out of the rubble of their bombed-out flat."

The Earl replied with appropriate concern to this news. "And how old is he?"

"Ten, my lord."

Sir Robert's heart was touched by the unfortunate circumstance. "And so he was only..."

"Eight. He were eight when it happened. I have a sister, but she was lost to us in '42 when her Red Cross tent was (we are told) accidentally hit near El Alamein." The large man noticeably shifted in his seat at the recounting of this segment of his sorrowful family history. "Most of your children have parents?"

"Some, yes," the Earl replied. "Some, no. It is uncertain where the Islander children are concerned. We've heard nothing in the three and half years since their evacuation. We still encourage the children to send regular letters through the Red Cross, though."

At this, Legg grunted.

"He is a good boy?" the Earl asked, his interest obvious. "Diligent in his studies? Gets along decently with his fellows?"

"He is a very good boy, Sir Robert. The best. He can get in a brown study now and then, but his teachers have never complained of his schoolwork, only that sometimes he is too fond of pigtails and inkwells, if you take my meaning."

"Yes, well," the Earl chuckled. "We do have some pigtails he might like to dunk. But Lady Sophie has more than proven herself an effective disciplinarian. Would you like to take the train out to Kirk Leaves, say, tomorrow afternoon? See for yourself if it might suit?"

At this, Legg broke eye contact. "Afraid I cannot, Sir, though I would like very much to see it. I am required to stay within a certain radius of my HQ, and call in regularly on such days as today, my afternoon off."

"I see." The Earl grew solemn. "And yet, sight unseen, you wish to place your Mark with me?"

Legg gave a sharp, decisive nod. "Thesaurus patriae, Sir."

"'Treasure of the nation'? Aye, Legg, the children, they are."

In a moment, Legg seemed to regret having surrendered his hat to the major domo. His hands seemed just then in need of something to fiddle with. "I must confess, my lord, that there is another way in which I know of you." He brought his gaze to bear. "I knew your son, Robin. We served together, trained together before...the unit's accident."

"Oh," said the Earl, investing that single sound with great depth of meaning. "And," the word was little more than a whisper, as though he needed a glass of water to quench his throat, so unexpected was the reference. He closed his mouth and began again, stronger this time, more himself, "...and so you will also have known Lady Sophie's son..."

"Mitch," Legg agreed. "Better man was never birthed, Sir. No disrespect to your Robin."

"Surely, none taken." The Earl fought the urge to resettle himself in his chair, as though a draft had gone through the room.

Legg nodded. "And so, you see, I know something of you, after all. Which is why I have brought this along with me, as well." He withdrew a sheaf of neatly folded papers from inside his uniform coat and placed them, unopened, on the table between them.

"Those certainly look official," the Earl commented.

"I have been to see my solicitor, Sir, you see. To settle what is to come-what may be to come." Legg moved to push a particularly persistent fall of light yellow hair from out of his eyes, "A man takes on the care of a child and he comes to think about such things that never before worried him. I must plan for Mark's future. His parents have left him a good sum to start life on. I will have my HQ send you regular monies from my wages for his keeping."

The Earl nodded.

"These are his government documents," Legg said, "ration card, a key to my safe deposit box. He will receive my death benefit, in the case of my not returning. All of this is outlined here."

Naval Commander Legg leaned forward in his seat, an eagerness for approval clearly in his eye. "My next request I do not ask you to settle on today, nor, even, tomorrow. But only to consider, and I shall leave the paperwork with you." He patted one of the sheaves of official-looking papers, his the span of his hand almost eclipsing the legal documents. "Should I die, Mark will have what he needs for his keep, and for his modest welfare. But he will have no one on earth to look out for him, to care for him or teach him rightly of the world." The large man took a very, very large breath. "It is my desire that you be that man." He nearly cut his own self off. "NOT in making him your heir, in any way, only, that you consider strongly accepting the potential guardianship of him in the case of my not returning from this imminent mission, or one in future. Making him your ward. If you will do so, sign the papers and have them returned to my solicitor (his name found within) and he will file them discreetly with the courts. If you decline my offer, return them, unsigned. Either way you have my thanks for hearing me out."

Silence (though not an uncompanionable one) fell between the two men.

It was Legg who first broke it. "Will you accept him as a boarder at your Kirk Leaves?"

"I will, without reservation." The Earl laughed a bit. "This is far more of an interview than I have had the pleasure to hold with any of the other children's parents-or guardians. And I'm certain Lady Sophie will be delighted to have him."

"Thank you, Sir. If it would be alright, I will write to you about Mark, perhaps more of his story, his likes and so forth, to help you-and Lady Sophie-along in the care of him."

"I thank you in advance. No doubt such information will prove imminently helpful. But I must ask. Your request of legal guardianship in the event...why me? Whatever would make you think an old man like myself, a widower, was best-suited to permanently take on the care of a young boy?"

For a moment, something about Legg's eyes bordered on bemused, quickly pooling into sincerity. "Robin Oxley is your son?"

The Earl nodded.

Ron Legg all but slapped the table in front of him illustrating the conviction he felt on the subject. "A man need no better reference for fatherhood than that."

Shortly after, Robert Oxley, Sr., Earl of Huntingdon, bid farewell to the Naval Commander. But he did not immediately surrender the meeting room, after the handshaking and farewells letting the tower-of-a-man find his own way back to the street-level entrance. The Earl had not meant in any way to be discourteous, only, he found he needed some time apart from the club's society to muse on the documents that still occupied this barrister's table.

He thought about Ron Legg, with his firm handshake and obvious concern for his young nephew, his last family left on earth. He thought about how, at their parting, Legg had seemed to gravitate toward being a more convivial chap, and wondered if that might be more of his usual disposition, this particular meeting (and its grave subject matter) dampening that natural boisterousness that perhaps matched his remarkable size.

He thought about how years and years ago, under the looming spectre of the early days of the Great War, someone else in his life had unexpectedly announced the coming of a child. How his own dear Delia had laughed more than usual (and usual was quite a lot) at that evening's dinner (whether her appointed conversation partner was witty or not), danced (for she always wished to have dancing whenever guests came) with a great flourish of skill, and how her eyes had sparked like newly-lit Roman candles that night when he had retired to their chamber.

"There is terrible, grim news to share," she had told him, impish as a pixie.

As was always his way, he fell for her foolishness. "Whatever might it be, my dear?"

"The doctor says...I have only three months to live..." she declared.

The Earl had felt the bellows that were his lungs compress.

"...with this figure."

"Three months?" he had asked, in desperation for clarification.

She smiled so warmly at his disconcertment, her own demeanor still quite merry. "Possibly less." She shook her head in mock-sorrow. "It is a problem many expectant mothers experience, I am told."

"Expectant? Mothers?" he had asked.

And she had nodded.

There had been no need for either of them to sleep that night. Their eyes need not have closed, carrying them into slumber, as with her announcement they were already caught up in a dream.

There at the Grey Goose Club, the Earl thought of that night some thirty-one years ago. Of how dreaming about a child was never the same as having one. The child one dreamed of never the same child one received. Of how parenthood and fatherhood and growing families was easily as significant a commitment as marriage.

Mark Legg. Represented in front of him by a small mass of paperwork, government documentation, and what was left in the air of his uncle's goodwill and care for the boy.

In a way, the Earl thought, signing the appropriate papers to make young Mark his potential ward was like committing himself to life, after all this time, entering into a tangible pact to say that he would go on living. That he would make an effort. And not only that, but that he would try to relearn how to teach another person how to live, how to go about life and right and fun (though, of course, it had been Robin who always took the lead in those lessons).

Despite the recent light-hearted turn of events in his life, with the introduction of the displaced children to Kirk Leaves, the Earl did not take such a commitment lightly.

Certainly he would not sign any such papers today, but he would write to Naval Commander Legg to say that he would consider this proposition. It was a fair one, and had been presented fairly. That, he could more than respect. He would meet with Mark Legg, his newest (as of today) boarder, perhaps escort him to Kirk Leaves himself, use the train journey there to learn more of the boy, of the boy's disposition, of his own suitability to take on such a lad.

And perhaps, just perhaps, he might write to Lady Miranda Nighten, simply to gauge what she might think, it always being good to seek out dissenting opinions on any matter of grave importance.

GUERNSEY - Road from Barnsdale to St. Peter Port - She had managed to beg off spending any significant amount of time with Geis, citing her desire to get into the capitol and out again, home, so that she might further rest, with all haste.

He had proven amenable to the idea, no doubt expecting (she knew him well-enough after three years to see it in his eyes, the careless lay of his hand on her arm when he addressed her) that the rest she would take upon her return would be in his presence, if not directly within his arms.

She tried not to think about it.

It was an exceptionally lovely autumn day; she was in an exceptionally impressive automobile, with one of Robin's own men at the wheel, and Eleri Vaiser mooning over her (and the shopping trip to come) in the backseat. Conversation proved quite well-rounded and informal among all three, a rare thing to witness in public since the Occupation, which had made letting one's guard down nothing so much as a very bad idea.

The road was rough and rutted at points, not seeing a great deal of upkeep since Islanders were prohibited cars, and each jolt during those sections reminded her of her recent kidnapping, and the rough nights that followed.

They talked of hemlines and fashion (though in their cut-off seclusion from the rest of the larger world, they had no idea what current fashion might be), of (usually out-dated) German and Parisian magazines Geis sometimes brought to Marion showing hairstyles or the particular cut of a blouse.

There was something comforting about discussing such inanities when yards away, to either side of the road, were people, children and families without enough food, without coal for heat, or necessary medicines. Without a matched pair of decently-soled shoes between them.

Usually this inequity would have incensed Marion in its injustice. Enraged her to the point of shaking with it. Today she let it be, she accepted that her only course for the morning was to be one of utter frivolousness. That her outrage must necessarily be banked until the Nightwatch broadcasted. And she let herself feel just a corner of the excitement their excursion had produced in Eleri.

Today Marion would agree to play the role assigned to her. But she had decided: the curtain would fall on that performance this afternoon. There was a freedom, a relief in knowing it.

Once near the shopping quarter, Marion recommended they leave the car, the streets unused, now, to traffic, a car's presence (and that being known as the Kommandant's) sure to discomfit the locals.

"No, no, Eleri," Marion corrected, noting the Sisters of Ripley Convent had not known to train their young charge in correctly alighting from an automobile. "Place your hand in the one Mr. Allen has offered, your left foot on the step, with your right free to place on the ground."

Eleri tried disembarking again, proving less clumsy this time.

Marion sighed. She could see the task of gentling the girl would prove somewhat daunting. It was not a task she relished, nor wished to devote herself to, but, she did prefer to see things done the right way. Fortunately she had years of governesses, training, texts, and the former Lady Nighten's impeccable first-hand instruction on her side.

As a threesome (Allen appropriately-to-his-station several steps behind) they walked among shops displaying very little inventory, Eleri buying nearly whatever she saw, very certain to pay for anything she added to Allen's array of carried boxes and bags. Such punctiliousness was not a very Jerry-like trait.

But it was not much of a spree, all-told, nineteen-hundred and forty-three too many years into the Occupation to be able to find above-board shops with decent (or plentiful) wares yet to offer. The island's warehouses had long been cleaned out, grandmothers' trunks long ago pillaged for anything remotely saleable, and the Jerries had long since repossessed (with payment, or without) whatever may have caught their eye.

In St. Peter Port, even un-used fabric for a new frock (much less a ready-made new frock) proved as scarce as once-plump Islander faces. Scarce even for the girl now known by all to be the Kommandant's daughter, in the company of a woman long known to be Lieutenant Gisbonnhoffer's bride.

"Wot you need to do, Miss Eleri," Allen had devolved into giving her the English address, rather than the German 'Fraulein', "'S get your dad to send to the mainland for you. No doubt he can find something there. There are those, after all-"

Marion snapped open her eyes at him, trying to recall to him that it was not wise to treat Eleri as anything but hostile until they knew her far better, and fearing he was about to reference local Black Market goods, with which Robin and his unit were far from strangers. But a way of procuring goods that certainly Eleri did not need to be acquainted with unless her father chose to acquaint her so.

"Eleri," Marion sang out with far more vim than she felt in an effort to distract the girl from Allen's indiscreetly leading comment, and lying about her own language skills, "would you be so good as to read this poster for me? There are several words here I don't recognize."

Eleri squinted hard at the posted bill. It would seem Marion's true skills with the tongue of the Fatherland might outstrip the girl's. "I do not know this word," Eleri pointed to a long one near the top.

"That is the name of a local cafe, renamed here by the Germans as Cabaret Alstroemeria," Marion prompted. "It is named in Chilean for a local flower, the Inca lily."

"Oh," said Eleri. "The poster is an advertisement for a new cabaret to open, and its main act, a clairvoyant named Joss Tyr. But why would the announcement only be made in German? How, then, could the Islanders know to go and attend as well?"

Allen lightly sniggered, offering the explanation. "Joss Tyr's the OberAdmiral's pet, Miss Eleri. Anywhere he performs is for Germans only. Islanders verboten. No doubt all the handbills for his show are exclusively in German. You needn't worry, though. Being Kommandant's daughter will surely win you an invitation."

But Eleri was already mooning over the next shop window, this time of Ginny Glasson's Beauty Salon, which happened to be the preferred place for any woman on the island consorting with Germans to have her hair and nails done.

The bright lights of only one of her three mirrored stations were turned on, the hairdryers all free.

"Mr. Allen," Marion instructed Allen, "we will go in. You'd best ferry Fraulein Vaiser's," (she deliberately used Eleri's formal title), "parcels back to the car for us, and return in an hour. We should be finished, or nearly so, by that time."

"Lady," Allen said, with a reasonable approximation of deferential head nod, but a far more familiar look in his eye than a chauffeur ought be allowed, and turned to go.

"Lady Marion!" Mrs. Glasson called from over by the manicure cart, where she had been absently inspecting her own cuticles.

They exchanged relative pleasantries, and Marion introduced Eleri.

Ginny Glasson was of a certain age wherein it was no longer seen as polite to speculate about a woman's age. She had been considered by the island to have been a great beauty in her day, and her looks remained very agreeable, if, to those willing to take a closer look, sometimes strained about the eyes.

She had been a nurse prior to the Occupation, and a skilled and well-loved one at that, but the discovered fact that her eldest son served in His Majesty's Navy, and her two younger in the Army, had led to the Germans barring her from any work at hospital. And would have led to worse, had her wits and still-pretty face (and her mature knowledge of how best to use them) not brought her to purchase the salon from one of the last Jewish landlords on Guernsey, who had not chosen to evacuate (to his detriment), and to, within-the-week of purchase re-open it under her name, especially catering to Jerries in need of a manicure, haircut, shave; or their girls, the islands' 'Jerry-bags' looking to be primped and made ready for spending time with their German boyfriends.

In this way, her salon was often a bizarre microcosm of the Occupation, any supplies; nail lacquer, hair dye, pomades, permanent solution, coming to her through German officers who wished her shop (and her) to flourish. Frivolous things brought by supply ships from mainland France and delivered to her, while Islanders suffered for want of basic essentials.

Her shop's pantry was so well stocked it was not unusual to see German soldiers patrolling the shop front after dark, guarding her horde of beauty essentials, scissors and curlers, as well as soaps, alcohol and liniments, lotions and healing balms for massages and necessary disinfecting of her utensils.

Often one could expect to see her shop bustling with customers, Jerries opening charge accounts there for their best girls, rarely refusing to pay Mrs. Glasson for her services. In fact, often over-tipping her in Reichmarks for particularly satisfying conclusions to evenings prepared for under her careful aesthetician's eye.

They treated her as something between a retired beauty queen, a high-end brothel's respected madam, and an invaluable bartender, to whom one might talk casually about things not of the war, but of home, of love and infatuation, of the weather and travel and being away from loved ones. To them she had come to represent an impenetrable bubble of normalcy, her nursing past, her sons in service to their enemy forgotten as though she had been re-born, sprung to life fully-formed at the salon's opening under her shingle.

Marion was no stranger to the salon, and neither was Eva, who had not had occasion to wash her own hair in the cottage's enamel basin since shortly after the Occupation began.

"It is true, then," Mrs. Glasson was saying, her eyes going to Marion's cheek and the Nazi doctor's stitches visible, there.

Marion wore her hair in a snood, concealing for the most part its having been shorn. "Does news travel so fast, even without wireless?" she asked, willing her hand not to self-consciously rise to shield the stitching from view.

"C'est la Guernsey, Marion," Ginny Glasson smiled. "You were an object of interest on the island long before the Occupation and all other modes of entertainment were taken from us. Gossip is about all the vice we Islanders have energy left for. You were gone for days, disappeared. Is it true your attacker took a knife to your lovely hair?"

Best, Marion supposed, to simply speak of it, refusing to do so coming off as strange, if not haughty, and putting a far more shocking spin on her mis-adventure than she felt was necessary. "He cut it on account of my being..." even though she knew the word could not hurt her, even though it would have been flung at Ginny Glasson, at Eva just as often, she stumbled in the saying of it, "a Jerry-bag. The whole disaster was my fault." Ginny was steering her toward a chair in front of one of the light-bulbed mirrors. "You see, I had bribed a boatman to take me to Alderney so that I might spend Geis' birthday with him..."

She did not see Eleri's (just behind her) reaction to this confession. The girl nearly had to take a seat she was so close to swooning with the romantics of it all. It was as though she could almost hear music swelling with sentiment in the background to the story.

As she made her way across the shop's open floor, Marion half-stumbled in her shoe, having stepped poorly and aggravated the wounds on her foot.

Ginny looked down, taking in the very unfashionable wrapping of bandages below Marion's calves. Momentarily her voice lost its chattiness. "Come to the back with me, now." She directed Marion to the hallway and small rooms behind a hung curtain. "Miss Eleri," she instructed the girl over her shoulder, "do keep Count von Himmel company for me. He is renting a station from me, here, while he prepares to open his act at the cafe-that is, the Cabaret-Alstroemeria just through the alley to the rear of my shop."

She had gotten Marion to a chair set up with a large basin for foot soaking, and proceeded to unbind her bandages. She kept her conversation light, and when she did ask questions about Marion's injuries, they were also delivered lightly, making them easy to answer, and not making her seem to pry. With the speed and dispatch of an excellent nurse she had cleaned (with topical solutions from her impressive store) and re-dressed Marion's feet, examining the stitches on her face and neck, Marion's wrist bandages concealed from view under the long sleeves she wore.

"I do not know," Marion confessed, "if it is Geis' plan to shuttle me back to Alderney to be seen again by the German doctor." She sighed. "I do not know why I could not be just as well cared for by a physician here."

At this statement (unusually verbose for the often inscrutable Marion Nighten), Mrs. Glasson's eyes took on a certain sparkle. "Why not let him know you would prefer to have done?" she asked, shrugging, as though the request would be a small enough one to make. "As long as your Lieutenant sees to it the Guernsey doctor of your choice is properly supplied with the necessary medical provisions, an island doctor can do as well for you at this point as Hippocrates himself." The sparkle twinkled. "And anything left over might well benefit another islander in need..." She bent her head to the task of tying Marion's shoes for her. "You might speak with Eva as well. Her mother, Hilda, is sure to have a poultice at the ready for decreasing any scarring from the stitching on your cheek." She had not waited for an answer to her unexpected proposal, had not tried to make the statement significant, or push for its acceptance.

Before Marion knew it, she was ushered out beyond the privacy curtain into the shop proper to find Eleri in eager contemplation of a man at the large mirror, an array of face paints, brushes and cold cream before him on the counter.

"...And so you are here, from this other island, Jersey, to perform?"

"At the OberAdmiral's direct request, Fraulein. It is most-important to always mention that. You will note it is printed so on all the posted bills: 'command performance'."

Marion spoke. "But will you not be further away from Prinzer's usual billet? I have heard it said his ship rarely leaves the waters about Jersey."

The man turned and looked at her. Distractingly his face was half-painted and made-up, a smile drawn upon half his lips, flecks of shiny metallic confetti or some such sprinkled at one temple and along one cheekbone. The other half was completely bare. On this side even his beard was evident. She noticed a patch of irregular scarring along the underside of his unpainted jaw.

Seeing her eyes go to it, he brought up his hand to scratch it, as though absentmindedly.

He got the reaction he had been looking for. Upon realizing the hand that did the scratching was not simply gloved, but, in fact, partially wood, its fingers petrified and immoveable, Marion's eyes (only her eyes) startled.

"Joss Tyr," he said, stepping out of the salon chair to introduce himself to her with his stage name. "Though Frau Glasson, here, prefers Count von Himmel." He used a gloved hand to indicate the un-made-up side of his face, seeming woeful in contrast to its opposite half, though in truth his un-painted expression was genial enough. "And no, I will not be far from the OberAdmiral, who has chosen to decamp for a period to the waters of the Guernsey bailiwick."

His eyes blinked, and Marion thought she saw something very like diamond dust on his painted lid. Distracted, she did not immediately notice when he took her left hand in the appropriately courtly fashion of the aristocracy.

The wood of his fingers was startling to the touch, even through the soft leather of his kid gloves, the fact that some of the fingers were still his own, uninjured and lissome, adding to the unsettling quality of the tactile encounter.

Because he had her left hand, he had access to her bare ring finger. "Missing ring?" he asked, obviously aware that she was engaged. His eyes were like astrolabes, distant celestial bodies shining through them as she looked into them, unable for the moment to look away. He feigned concern. "That's going to be a problem," he tutted. "Bit of a habit with you, isn't it? Misplacing rings...and suitors?"

"You, Sir," Marion, in knee-jerk reaction to her consternation and astonishment replied, "are very forward."

"And you, Lady," Tyr parried the barb, clearly enjoying himself, "would like nothing so very much as to," he rolled his fingers to mimic the words, "Go. Back..."

Fortunately Eleri (who had been looking on raptly nearby) burst in to the dangerous exchange, demanding a reading of her own.

Joss Tyr turned back to the girl, his ego (or his alleged psychic gift) redirecting his energies momentarily, and he released Marion from his grip. "You," he smiled at Eleri, "I have already prophesied about. As for a reading..." He closed his eyes and seemed to meditate a moment. "You...will not see your hair cut off today, though you are planning to ask Frau Glasson to do so. And you will not yet lose your heart to another, either, though you are ever planning to do so." At this, he performed a small bow, and in an instant, instead of the man, the German aristocrat and former soldier, the cabaret act known as Joss Tyr seemingly evaporated, re-coalescing into a dove, cooing as it perched in Eleri Vaiser's hand, where the man, now disappeared, had held it in his.

At this vanishing act, Eleri quite giddy with the assumed magic of the trick, Marion quite ready to conclude the shopping trip, Allen came to collect them (as told). He returned them to Barnsdale, driving the Kommandant's Guernsey car back to St. Peter Port where it would be stored until Vaiser again visited, and where Allen could catch a boat back to Alderney, and his driving job (long hours yet, still left in the day) there.

...TBC...

A/N: A brief note of apology...followed by a longer note of story specifics that you may enjoy reading, or you may find unnecessary to peruse. I wrote it out to answer a question Marjatta had, so I include it here.

A Brief Note of Apology: Still trying to get England and the Islands on the same time frame. Not much time has passed on the Islands since the beginning of "Don't Go Walkin' Down Lover's Lane" (less than a week,actually), and as I write on an ongoing basis (that is, I don't have a bunch of story banked or completed that's not been posted), I find that I'm writing about happenings in England that are not taking place at the same rate. Time in England seems to move faster.
So, Ron Legg visiting the Earl did NOT happen only hours (or even, only days) after the Earl started taking in children at Kirk Leaves (after all, at the story's beginning on the Islands, in October, we got a segment where the Earl is still alone, and asking Lady Nighten what to do with his estate, etc.). I *could* leave the Ron Legg/Grey Goose interlude and post it further into our story, but something tells me that it feels like the right thing to put here, in Chapter 13, even if England and the Islands are kept in disharmony timeline-wise for a little longer.
Please consider repair of this tear in the time/space continuum (which, yes, I do find worrying) as ongoing.
[calmingbreez, this segment's for you]

A Longer Note Addressing Story Specifics:

Descending Hierarchy/Order of (author-manufactured) Military Ranks, divided by Forces
(Historical figures are used only insofar as to further illustrate rankings. Story characters' names are italicized.)

Axis
+ Chancellor Hitler (aka the Fuehrer)

+ Field Marshal (in German: Feldmarschall) Rommel (controlled action in entire African theatre of operations). The rank of 'field marshal' is generally the highest rank of any officer in the army (it is in Britain), however, as there are multiple theatres (and multiple armies) during wartime, there may be more than one individual granted the rank. [The US military does not use this title/rank.]

+ Gruppenfeldmarschall Baron Diederich von Bachmeier. It is unclear what Vaiser's ex-wife's current husband (and Eleri's step-father) is specifically in charge of, but he is one step removed from a full Field Marshal, so it's safe to say that not only is he noble (a Baron), he is extremely powerful and important, and Vaiser himself has referred to him as his boss. This is not a real rank, but 'gruppen' is attached to many German military ranks as a qualifier. [Coincidentally, my favorite *actual* German rank is 'obergruppenfuehrer'. Mostly because it seems like a lot to shout in a battle.]

+ OberAdmiral Jan Prinzer (controls/oversees all of the Channel Islands). I have chosen to make him an Admiral (Navy) because it makes sense to me that the Navy would be best suited to oversee the occupation of the Islands.

+ Island Kommandant (Guernsey is more populous, but Vaiser is at least equal to or above the Guernsey Island Kommandant, due to his island, Alderney, being 100% Reich prisoners or soldiers under his direct rule, and therefore his position and power on it/over it resembles more that of an all-powerful king or despot.

+ (*Historically, Alderney was the domain of the SS [the Schutzstaffel], and certainly here I imagine Vaiser and Geis as members of that elite group of soldiers, defined in my dictionary as, 'a unit of Nazis created to serve as bodyguard to Hitler and later expanded to take charge of intelligence, central security, policing action, and the mass extermination of those considered inferior or undesireable'. They would have operated largely independently of the regular army-perhaps, depending on how kindly you may view them, a bit like the Knights Templar, or, we would certainly say, The Black Knights. This group became increasingly powerful and influential as the war went on, their willingness to kill over little and do whatever they deemed necessary to achieve their ends a powerful deterrent to disobeying them, even among other branches of the Reich's military. Their direct allegiance was to the SS, and Hitler, and at a certain point they would have held a sort of 'diplomatic immunity' or something where the regular army, etc. was concerned. *This may also indicate that while Prinzer is Vaiser's on-site boss, Baron Bachmeier may be his SS boss-the man to whom he ultimately answers.)

+ Lieutenant (pronounced in German 'LOYT-nant') Herr Geis Gisbonnhoffer (obviously other ranks would exist separating him and Vaiser, we just have not seen any in the story thus far) [*I like to employ the use of 'Herr' sometimes in Geis' title, to give the impression of his series' qualifier 'Sir'. I do not know if a soldier w/ a military rank would ever be addressed by his non-military title (the equivalent of 'Mister') or not.]

+ ReichKaptain Lamburg A sticky situation here, his actual rank is lower than Geis' (who is in charge of the Treeton Camp), HOWEVER, Lamburg has an entire island (Sark) under his command (though its population of around 470 is far less than Treeton Camp's. The total inmate population of all camps on Alderney-there were four-was about 6K souls), so his position is fluid. On Sark he outranks Geis, off Sark he is closer to his equal, but he is given certain privileges, level of deference etx, as a 'three-quarters Island Kommandant'.

+ Operation Todt Officer Count Werner von Himmel The former soldier now known as cabaret performer Joss Tyr was tasked to Operation Todt, the military name given to the program of prisoner workers/slave laborers (mostly Eastern European) who were shipped onto the Islands and used to build fortifications and to mine the beaches (65K+ landmines on Jersey alone) for defense purposes. Their lives (the prisoner workers') were easily as gruesome and cruel as those prisoners condemned to the camps.

+ Underlieutenant Diefortner, Vaiser's adjutant

+ Specialist Joseph, just that, a soldier with a 'specialty'.

+ Landser (actual WWII German military rank) a left-over title from when armies had branches of cavalry ('lancer' in English, because they carried lances). Recall that WWI was fought still with cavalries in play.

+ Private

Non-combatants
+ Bailiff Jodderick, the bailiwick of Guernsey's highest civilian official (recall, the bailiwick includes more than just the island of Guernsey). Obviously, Jodderick is based on the BBC RH series character, and has no resemblance to the actual individual who historically held this office during the Occupation.

+ All other members of Guernsey's the States (legislature), which would oversee all the islands, save Jersey. *(At least this is the way I understand it as working. It may be that the Bailiff and Le Seigneur are on par, as are the members of the States on par with Sark's conseilliers.)

+ Le Seigneur, Sark's highest civilian official. During the Occupation it was Dame Sibyl Hathaway (for the most part it had always been men, hence the masculine title, 'Le' on the masculine proper noun). There is both a play and a book about her extraordinary life. If I understand correctly, this position is often heredity, but can be sold, so that today's Seigneur is not descended from the original De Carteret.)

+ Stephen La Salle, 'conseiller', holding a seat (as does each of the 40 or so-at this time, only male-tenants on Sark) on Sark's parliament, Chief Pleas.

+ Constable - member of Island-based law enforcement, usually working in tandem (though, obviously, no long with any true power) with the German occupiers.

Allies
It is not my intent to try and harmonize ranks between the two warring forces. You can try your own hands at that conundrum when you find the time. *It is probably good to note, that even during WWII (and certainly during WWI), the British military still largely operated with commissioned officers being members of the nobility, enlisted men being not. Of course, with enough money, one might buy oneself a commission. So, some things had not changed so significantly from the Crusades, or from the writing of Jane Austen's Napoleonic Wars-era novels. Noblemen were still knights (officers), regular people were still foot soldiers in thrall to them on the battlefield.

It was not impossible (especially in WWI) to find yourself a middle-aged man with both life and combat experience answering to a nineteen-year-old officer because he was born to the gentry.

In this story, I am giving Wills Reddy the backstory of being from the middle class (you may recall his father, here, was a successful furniture manufacturing merchant with several factories). So Wills (as a commissioned officer would need) has a university education. (Not like the series, but still, he has a skill, and that is what it is meant to represent; him as a craftsman, not as simply an unskilled serf worker. The series' Dan Scarlet is called 'a skilled laborer' by Robin, who built 'half this [Locksley] village'. This gives the Scarlet/Reddy family a level of status a mere field laborer would not have had.)

Based at home:
+ Clem Nighten - Quite high up at MI-6/SIS. He's more or less worked for the Ministry since leaving university in 1932. We're never certain how much he knows or how powerful he is. (I'm unclear if he would hold a military rank or simply a civilian title. I do know he doesn't wear a uniform.) He is powerful enough to wrangle permission to 'interview' one of the German lightkeepers pinched in the commando raid of Les Casquets when his 'interview' only really consists of self-serving personal questions about the welfare and lives of Marion and his father.

+ Roger Stoker, Intelligence officer previously assigned to the British 8th Army/the Italian Front - Ranked below Clem, and probably quite far (though even Stoker is not sure by how much), but still of great importance (if not great status) to SIS. A field operative as opposed to a 'desk jockey'. (C'mon, do you think James Bond has a desk-and a filing cabinet?) Though currently being treated a bit shabbily by SIS in where he is being housed, he would outrank Robin and all of Unit 1192. As you recall, he claimed Robin's recruitment into His Majesty's Service as his own doing, so he has both rank and tenure on his side.

+ Naval Commander Ron Legg

Stranded on the Islands:
I have deliberately NOT given specific ranks (only specific duties) to Unit 1192. I like to pretend that they're so covert that they are not even allowed to reference their specific military titles/ranks amongst each other. Perhaps when the day comes that they return to England someone will address them appropriately and then we'll find out.

Commissioned Officers:
+ Robin Oxley - highest-ranking Allied officer on the Channel Islands

+ Mitch Bonchurch - Navigation Officer [I don't know. I guess, as we know, at one time they had a boat. Really, I just thought it would be funny to put Much in charge of directions.]

+ Wills Reddy - Communications Officer

Enlisted Men:
(in no particular order*)

+ Allen Dale - Reconnaissance and Acquisitions

+ Richard Royston - Explosives

+ Iain "John" Johnson - Medic

*I assume they decide who is to be in charge of whom based on whose skill is most called for at any given moment. So if they are laying dynamite, Roy's in charge, etc.

Royal Air Force:
+ Eagle Squadron Flight Commander Thomas Carter - Equivalent-ish rank of Mitch and Wills, still subject to taking orders from Robin. (This is an actual rank used in Eagle Squadron, though I cannot tell you more than that.)

Elsewhere in the Field:
+ U.S. 5th Army Captain - Italian Front - Fred Otto. Fred's rank will probably change before we see him again (in WWII if you managed to stay alive you could jump through the ranks quite quickly, even-at least in the American forces, not sure about the British-receive a battlefield commission, and leapfrog from enlisted man over to officer). For the purposes that Fred has no one else in the storyline to be placed up against in status, I would rank Fred (at this rank) on par with Mitch and Wills and Carter.