Near the centre of the briefing table there laid a faint mark, and like most scars, it went unnoticed by the casual observer but remained glaringly obvious to those who were present at its creation. Harry knew it was there. No amount of polish or time could completely erase it. It was from when he had thrown a chair across the table in a fit of rage at Ros over her duplicity with Yalta. It would always be there, just beneath the surface.

His elbow rested on the arm of his chair, his fingers absently rubbing his chin, giving the impression that he was listening intently to the voices of Lucas and Tariq, but his focus was on the scar. Over the years, he had believed his anger to have mellowed, thinking that his outburst at Ros was one last resurgence of a fading temper. Until last night. His eyes left the scratch and travelled to Ruth. She sat at the other end of the table, as far away from him as possible. She was leafing through a ream of paper, one hand poised above her work, a pen slowly rotating through her fingers. Slim and tapered, her fingers rubbed up and down along the shaft of the pen, mesmerising him with their movement. The pen ceased in mid motion and her eyes flashed up at him. He stared at her, unflinching, not caring that he had been caught out. Instead of her usual demure avoidance, she held his gaze, the air between them moving with silent thought. They both knew what lay just beneath the surface.

"I was able to pull passwords from the USB stick Ruth lifted." Tariq's voice filtered into Harry's consciousness.

At the mention of her name, Ruth brought her attention back to her papers. "There's a trail from Romaldi to Lindemann. A number of offshore accounts. Monies from which have been syphoned into various unstable regions."

"Any of our people?" Lucas asked.

"Besides the Lawrence charity, there were substantial donations to Bancroft's campaign through a number of third party aliases," said Ruth.

Harry rubbed his temple at the newly discovered malfeasance "I despise it when we have to clean our own house." He had to admit he wasn't remotely surprised by the information. At the very least, they could thwart Bancroft chance at office.

"We haven't gone through everything yet." Ruth tapped the pile of papers sitting in front of her.

"Who can we take this to?" Lucas asked.

"You mean how far do their fingers reach into our parliamentary pie?" Harry amended.

"The minute we tell anyone we'll lose any advantage we have in trawling their servers," Tariq warned.

"Then we wait until we have discovered everything. And we'll need incontrovertible proof against Bancroft."

"Do we put forth another candidate?" Ruth asked.

"We're not kingmakers, merely messengers. Let's make sure our message is heard loud a clear."

With those words, the team gathered up their papers and headed out the door, Ruth walking a few paces in front of Harry. They turned into the corridor and he said her name no louder than a whisper. She stopped, arms wrapped tightly around her torso, her file held close to her chest, as if shielding herself. He drew beside her, lowering his voice in confidence.

"I have a meeting with the DG. Can I pick you up at seven?"

He did not ask if she was still willing to accompany him to the Opera, he had taken her compliance for granted.

She nodded. "Do you remember where I live?"

"I remember everything." The heat, your fragrance, your lips. But he didn't say any of those words, he only smiled and walked away.

...

The cab crawled along at such an excruciatingly slow pace that Harry wondered if they were actually going backwards. He drummed his fingers on the seat, his earlier serenity now completely vanished. He had spent the last three hours defending his actions over Nightingale and biting his tongue at every turn to keep from exposing Bancroft. The meeting had run late - had he expected anything less – leaving him with the feeling that Dolby had known exactly what his plans were and was silently conspiring to keep him from having a private life. He looked down at his mobile wondering if he should call her while simultaneously contemplating who he could phone to get the traffic moving and out of his way. He had mistakenly assumed it would be faster to take a taxi to the theatre rather than suffer the pain of finding a parking spot with his own vehicle. It was all going wrong. He had wanted the night to be special, to pick her up at her house, drive through the darkened streets, and find their way back into the ease they enjoyed that night at the restaurant. His stomach churned. As each second passed, he could not help but think it was a sign that he and Ruth were not meant to be. It's only traffic; he consoled himself, not the end of the world.

The cab pulled up to the kerb and Harry paid off the driver, jumping out with alacrity he didn't know he possessed. The heat enveloped him, the humidity leaving droplets of moisture on his skin as he glanced at his watch. They could still make it in. He dove into the crowd, searching for her. She couldn't have entered the theatre without a ticket. But then again, this was Ruth and she did have an uncanny knack for accomplishing those sorts of tasks. He walked past the pillars, peering into the lobby, his hand absently fishing in his pocket for his mobile. He cursed himself for not being more specific about the exact location where they should meet. He cut through the crowd, moving against the current. He stopped for a moment to regroup his thoughts and caught his breath in relief. She stood, unaware of his presence, a diminutive silhouette against a giant advertisement, her brows furrowed, a worried expression on her face. For some reason, he wanted to savour the moment of her waiting for him, an ordinary woman on a night out free from the shackles of her past. She turned her head and recognised him, a warm smile lighting up her face. His heart fell into his stomach and his chest swelled, elated with the knowledge that he had finally been the one to bring a smile to her lips. She walked towards him and he drank her in, noting every detail of her appearance. He couldn't decide if her dress was black or blue, knowing only that held an iridescent sheen that fingers yearned to touch. The sleeves were short, her arms were bare, her feet in delicate silver sandals instead of boots. Parts of her previously unseen now uncovered, leaving him to imagine other parts unseen and waiting to be uncovered. A whole other Ruth just for him.

"I was worried something had happened," she greeted him. "I kept checking my phone but there was no red flash."

"You look lovely," he said.

She smiled modestly and looked towards the theatre. "Shouldn't we be going in?"

He wanted to take her by the hand, put his arm possessively around her shoulder, a decisive gesture that would claim her as his. Instead, he placed his hand on the small of her back, ushering her before him. He let his hand linger, feeling the smoothness of the fabric beneath his palm, and under that, the sinewy twist of muscle as she walked. Reluctantly, he removed his hand and produced their tickets for the usher. As quickly as he could, he returned his hand to its previous position on her back and dipped his head towards hers.

"We can get a drink at the interval."

They found their seats, settling in and catching their breaths. In perfect synchronicity, they both reached for their mobiles. He leant in close to her.

"You turn yours off, I'll set mine to vibrate," he whispered.

"Do you ever turn it off?"

"I don't think I dare."

"What about when-" She cut herself off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"When what?" he asked, his head moving closer to hers as they spoke.

Her tongue flickered out over her lips, a gesture she did when she was thinking, he reminded himself, it meant nothing more than that, but he couldn't help his eyes from falling down to her mouth. She took a breath as if to say something and then decided against it.

"Nothing," she answered enigmatically, shaking her head as she sat back in her seat.

Harry put his phone back in his pocket wondering what she was alluding. He studied her profile as she watched the stage waiting for the curtain to rise. A thought dawning on him and his eyebrow crooked. No, her mind didn't work that way, did it? Rolling his tongue on the inside of his cheek, he placed his elbow on the armrest and leant back into her.

"If I can guess what you were going to say, do I get a reward?"

She continued to look at the stage, pretending to ignore him.

"Do I?" He lowered his voice suggestively.

She elbowed his arm gently, speaking with a feigned indignation. "Will you be monopolising the armrest for the entire evening?"

He ceded the armrest to her, his eyes lingering on her lips, daring to imagine what she had intimated but not letting his mind fully entertain all the pictures that went along with it. He smiled contentedly; for a moment they had flirted, teased, and come close to the edge of being a normal couple enjoying a night out. He need not have worried; the evening would work out splendidly after all.

At intermission, they joined the queue around the bar, Ruth offering to pay for the drinks as her way of saying thank you. Harry put his hand over hers and pushed it away from the small clutch that she carried. He ordered them each a glass of wine, once again eschewing his habitual drink, having lost track of how many days he had gone without a scotch. He was a new man, this was a new era. They walked away from the crowd, shoulders subtly brushing, finding an enclave, and debating whether they could find a place to sit. He dragged his eyes away from her and instinctively glanced about the room, sensing the need to be on his guard. He let out a small groan and turned into Ruth, hiding his face.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's Clarence Bancroft. I'm hoping he doesn't see me."

She pressed closer to him as she kept her voice low. "Does he suspect we have anything on him?"

"I would think not."His hand rose to her waist, his mouth almost touching to her ear. A measure to protect their conversation - or so he told himself.

"We could hide," she said conspiratorially.

He smiled with grim resignation. It was their job to be invisible but they could never hide from their work.

"Harry!" a voice hailed him.

"Clarence," Harry greeted the man, quickly pulling his hand away from Ruth.

"Good to see Lawrence's Memorial didn't put a damper on your festive plans," the politician observed, a faint edge of contempt in his voice.

"I could say the same of you," Harry replied smoothly. The last thing he wanted to do was enter into a game of one-upmanship with this man.

"Actually, I'm here on business," said Bancroft.

"So are we." The words fell from his lips, his usual aplomb in these situations faltering. Ruth stiffened beside him.

Bancroft turned to Ruth. "I'm sorry we haven't met." He held out his hand. "Clarence Bancroft."

Ruth's eyes flew to Harry, a brief look of panic flickering in them. He understood. Should she use her real name or an alias? He wasn't sure what to do either, his instinct being to introduce her as someone else but she was his Analyst, she could very well meet Bancroft in another setting. They had nothing to hide.

"This is Ruth Evershed," Harry volunteered, omitting her title and the connection between them.

Bancroft took her hand holding onto it a little too long. He turned to Harry.

"Was the other one you were here with work too?"

Harry clenched his back molars, a scathing retort forming in his mind, but before it could make its way to his mouth, a bell chimed.

"Ah, the bells." Bancroft smiled with the certainty of a master marksman. "These pleasant interludes are always too short, aren't they? Time to get back and watch all the drama unfold." He gave Harry a knowing look. "Don't work too hard."

As Harry watched Bancroft's retreating back, a surge venomous rage coursed through his veins. He took a long draught of his wine and turned to Ruth. She was intently focused on her wine glass. He drained the last bit of his drink, waving the glass with his hand, doing his utmost to pretend that Bancroft's parting comment meant nothing.

"We'd better find a spot for these."

"Other one?" Ruth asked quietly, keeping her eyes lowered, her shoulders tense in anticipation of an explanation.

"Pay no attention to him. He was only trying to get my goat in retaliation for a comment I made yesterday."

"You can tell me."

What was he to tell her? That he was a man with needs, that he had found comfort with someone else. That he had blatantly disregarded that woman's feelings as he used her in an attempt to sate his appetite and forget the one who had sailed away. His fingers curled around the stem of his glass in frustration.

"You were gone almost three years, Ruth. You had a life. Was I not allowed to live too?"

"It was a half-life, Harry. I was never fully in it."

Her fingers moved up and down the stem of her glass reflectively, leaving Harry to wonder if she was fully in this life. She drained her glass, the muscles of her throat tightening as she swallowed.

"Is it right that we should be here, enjoying ourselves?" she asked quietly.

Damn Bancroft and his stupid interfering ways. The evening had been going so well. He took the glass from her, letting his fingers linger over hers, unable to think of what to say, hoping his touch would bring her back to him. She raised her gaze to him.

"Tosca dies at the end of this, doesn't she?"

"So does Mario," he pointed out.

"Because she couldn't save him."

Their eyes locked together, the pain of a shared remembrance wordlessly passing between them. He would not lose her to memory.

"But before that happens, they make quite a lot of beautiful music together."

His remark elicited a hint of a smile from her.

"Let's go find our seats." He set down their glasses and took her by the elbow, guiding her back to their section.

During the second act, a cloud of discontent formed around him. His thumb rubbed absently against his fingers as his mind churned, formulating the myriad of ways in which he could bring down Bancroft and the extreme pleasure he would feel in doing so. The opera held no allure for him, the music uninviting. In the darkness, between the notes, Ruth placed her hand on top of his, stilling the incessant movement of his fingers. She did not immediately take her hand away, but let it rest, her fingers drawing tiny circles on top of his hand, their soft ministrations slowly dissipating his anger towards Bancroft. She looked at him, her face barely discernible in the dimness of the theatre. Cautiously, he turned his hand over, feeling the heat of her palm against his as he threaded their fingers together, binding her to him. She gravitated closer, her head leaning on his shoulder, pressing against him as she inhaled deeply. The crown of her head rested near his chin and his lips brushed the halo of her hair. She squeezed his hand and he returned the pressure, everything forgotten, his world distilled down to the touch of her skin.

As the end of the act approached, the forlorn notes of a clarinet drifted through the air and Harry turned his focus towards the stage. It was the aria they had talked about in the restaurant, E lucevan le stella. The one about the stars, he had called it. He smiled, remembering their dinner together and how she had quoted the lyrics. His eyes drifted to the surtitles, following the words of Mario's lament. Fragrant she entered and fell into my arms. He sat up in his chair, his attention now completely fixed on following the translation, looking for the exact words she quoted. They appeared and his mind whirled at their implications.

He remained engrossed in the spectacle until the very last chord, his skin tingling as the music swelled, the hair on the back of his neck rising with the final crescendo. Without missing a beat, the entire audience erupted in applause. They alone remained perfectly still, reluctant to relinquish their hold on each other. The house lights rose and she turned her head on his shoulder, tilting up to look at him, eyes glistening. On impulse, his hand lifted to wipe away a lone tear that had escaped but she straightened up in her seat, blinking at him as if suddenly realising their proximity. She made to take her hand back but he would not release it.

He led her through the crowd, silently carving a path, connected to her through thought and touch. The crush grew thicker as they neared the exit, his grip on her hand tightening, afraid that he might lose her in the bustle. There was a bottleneck at the doors. The air saturated with humidity, had transformed into a mist, delaying those who were dressed in their finest from stepping out onto the pavement. It did not stop Harry. He moved with a deliberate step, intent on spiriting her away, to his house or hers, it made no difference, he only wanted to be alone with her. They made it outside and he pulled her along, distancing them from the melee in front of the doors, looking for a prime spot to hail a taxi. He briefly glanced back and noticed that she was shivering. He pulled her around to the side of the building where they found shelter under the overhang, away from the swell of the crowd and the increasing force of the rain. His hand ran up her arm, her skin clammy under his fingers.

"You're cold," he observed.

"I'm fine."

"Here."

He took off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders, wrapping his fingers around the lapels and pulling them close in around her. She was incredibly small under the weight of the material. He didn't let go of the lapels but left his hands resting on her shoulders, fingers flexing on the fabric. Her eyes rose to his, stirring in him the hunger from the previous evening, and he was seized with the desire to possess her. His fingers curled tighter around the jacket and with a gentle tug, he pulled her in closer, bending his head toward her. At the last moment, she turned away, leaving his lips to graze her cheek.

"Harry," she whispered.

He closed his eyes, keeping his cheek pressed against hers. She shifted, bringing her head away from his.

"What are we?"

"Do we have to put a name on it?" he asked with quiet confusion in his voice. "Can we just let things happen and see where it takes us?"

She brought her hand out from underneath the jacket and placed it on top of his. "I thought I could but I'm not..." She closed her eyes a pained expression crossing her face. "I don't know if I can be what you want me to be."

"What do I want you to be?"

"We can't pick up where we left off. I'm not that woman anymore."

"I'm not asking for that."

She looked at him, doubting his words, her head tilted in apology. "I'm sorry, Harry. I can't."

She pulled away from him, slipping out of reach, his hand moving out to grab her, fingers clutching at the jacket.

"Ruth, wait. Let me take you home."

She evaded his grasp, stepping backwards along the pavement. No, no this was not happening. Surely, he could not have misread everything that had happened between them. A bubble of panic rose in his throat as his mind frantically searched for ways to keep her.

"At least let me find you a taxi," he implored.

She shook her head, turning away from him, her silver sandals tapping lightly on the glistening pavement as her figure quickly disappeared into the moving crowd. He stood in his shirtsleeves, awash in disbelief, unable to fathom the fact that she abandoned him, leaving him alone in the rain.