Cordelia said.
“And I don’t believe you. I think you’re Kraut spies.”
“Hey!” Brendan said. “David Beckham! We’re American. Get it? From San Francisco.”
“Is that right? Because I was shot down over Amiens, not San bloody Francisco. Perhaps you’ve seen the plane?” The pilot nodded to the smouldering wreckage of the Sopwith Camel. The flames hadn’t caught against the tough bark of the tree… but they’d made quick work of the wings and tail.
“Anybody with half a brain could see you’re not in Germany,” said Brendan.
“Course not. Amiens is in France.”
“You’re not in France, either! Hello? Does France have trees like this?”
“Perhaps I’m in a Gallic hunting preserve.”
“Perhaps you’re in a special state I’ve heard of called denial.”
“Bren! Stop!”
“I say, you do sound like an American,” said the pilot. “Only a Yank would attempt such a pathetic joke.”
He holstered his gun and started to walk away. He didn’t get far before he stumbled and gripped his shoulder. The blood was still flowing freely, adhering his uniform to his skin. He tried to pull out the broken arrow, but the pain was too intense.
“Come on!” Cordelia said. “We’ve got to help him.”
“No, we don’t—”
“Bren, he’s hurt. And he saved our lives.”
Cordelia pushed at the net until she found an opening. She stepped out and held it wide for her brother and sister. They went (Brendan very reluctantly) to the pilot, who was kneeling on the ground, having torn a cuff off his trousers and tied it around his shoulder.
“What’s your name?” Cordelia asked.
“Draper, Miss. Wing Commander Will Draper. Royal Flying Corps, Squadron Seventy.”
“I’m Cordelia Walker.” She stuck out her hand and spoke quickly. “This is my brother, Brendan, and sister, Eleanor. We can help you, Mr D—”
“Call me Will.” Will took her hand and lightly kissed it, managing a winning smile through his pain.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, OK. Oh.” She took her hand back and stared at it briefly. “We have a house nearby. Can you walk?”
Will stood, leaning away from the pain, and lurched as his knees buckled. Cordelia caught him and propped him up on his uninjured side.
“Thank you,” he mumbled.
The group made its way back to Kristoff House. It was easy to see which direction they’d come – the horses had trampled a path in the undergrowth. Brendan walked sullenly in front, tearing the tips off ferns and disassembling them piece by piece. Cordelia stayed next to Will, supporting his left side, smelling the smoke and sweat and blood coming off him and trying to explain exactly who they were, what decade they were from, and what they were doing here. (Will wouldn’t believe a word of it.) Eleanor walked beside them, at one point tapping Cordelia’s shin with a twig and mouthing: You like him!
In a few minutes, Kristoff House appeared. Will blinked and rubbed his eyes. “Is it possible that arrow was tipped with a hallucinogenic drug? I’m having visions.”
“We told you we had a house,” Eleanor said.
“But how did it get here? Brought by woodland creatures?”
Cordelia sighed. “I told you—”
“It flew in from San Francisco,” Brendan said.
“Come off it, I won’t be made a fool—”
“We’re not making fun of you,” said Cordelia. “We don’t know how it got here, but it’s our house, and inside we’ve got stuff that will help your shoulder.”
Will furrowed his brow. “It’s much nicer than my house,” he finally admitted, before allowing the Walkers to lead him in.
Soon afterwards they took Will to the kitchen. The sun was lower now; the light coming through the windows was amber instead of yellow. Eleanor found her barbecue fork in the dumbwaiter and declared she was going to search the house to make sure they were safe. Cordelia said that was fine as long as she screamed if she saw anything strange. Eleanor left as Cordelia and Brendan helped Will on to the kitchen table.
“I’ll get you some ice to numb the pain,” Cordelia told Will. Brendan followed her to the fridge, whispering, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What?”
“Taking in strangers? We’re about to spend a night here without electricity. We have limited food. We don’t know who this guy is or—”
“Bren,” Cordelia said with a smile, “you don’t have to be jealous just because he’s better-looking than you.”
“That’s not true! He’s not—”
Cordelia raised her eyebrows like, Really? Behind her, Will took off his shirt – very delicately so as not to disturb the arrow.
“So?” Brendan whispered. “I’ll have a six-pack too when I’m old.”
“You wish.” Cordelia opened the freezer and pulled out an ice tray, but it was only filled with water. The shelves inside dripped with melted Häagen-Dazs. “I’m sorry, Will,” she said. “No ice.”
“Not a problem,” shirtless Will said. “Can you please come and help me fetch something?”
Brendan rolled his eyes. Cordelia walked to Will.
“It’s for my shoulder, in my right hip pocket. Can you—”
“Sure.” Cordelia tried to project an air of confidence, like she was an old pro at dealing with handsome young British pilots. She edged her fingers into Will’s pocket, blushing as she looked away from him, and felt something metal warmed by the heat of his body.
“Your gun?” she asked anxiously.
“No, no, gun’s on the other side. Go on, you’ve almost got it.”
Cordelia pulled out a sterling silver hip flask.
“There she is!”
It was slim and curved, with a Latin phrase etched on the front. Cordelia squinted at it. Even though she’d only known Will for about thirty minutes, she liked to think of him piloting fighter planes, not drinking. She handed the flask over disapprovingly.
Will took
