Hans Geering was walking down the street in London, eying the small hole-in-the-wall restaurants and remembering his years in Nouvion before he swapped sides. He was just considering heading home for a cup of tea, but his house was so empty since Ethel died, it just didn't seem worth it.

He bumped into a lady in the street who had been eying a perfume bottle in a window. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, then was stunned as the woman turned around. Despite the wrinkles and greying hair and thicker figure, she was obviously Maria Recamier.

"Hans!" She squealed, for a moment again. "I thought you were dead! What are you doing in London?"

He wiped his shoulder, and even the slight spitting she couldn't help didn't diminish his joy in seeing her again. "What are you doing these days? Are you still a waitress?"

"No, I work for the Red Cross." Again he wiped his shoulder. "They did find me in one of their post boxes, after all. How did you end up here?" He walked off with her, reminiscing furiously about their years in France together. They wound up in a café started by a French expatriate talking late into the night.

Spurred on by the excellent wine, he got up the courage to ask something he'd wondered about for some time. "Do you still have the egg-whisk?"

A smile broke over her face like a rising sun. "Of course. But sugar doesn't go as far as it used to, and I don't take cash on Sundays."