Eve's Final Dream

Eve is atop a building, warm in the lowering sun. Across the glittering Thames, construction continues on the new Parliament buildings. The restoration of the Old Bailey is almost complete.

Beside her stands a striking young woman, golden waves of hair stirring slightly in the evening breeze. She stands poised, erect, relaxed. Her patrician profile gazes across the city. She wears loose, flowing, almost classical clothing. "Who are you?" Eve asks.

The young woman turns. "Mother, it's me: London," she smiles.

"Ah, yes," says Eve to her daughter, wondering faintly why she had forgotten. She looks down to the child sleeping in her lap, delicate eyelashes resting on soft baby cheeks around small pursing lips, full of possibilities as all children are. "Dear England", she murmurs, brushing back a stray lock with a grandmother's gentle hands. "I wish your father could have been here," she adds, looking back up at London.

London gazes out across herself, listening, perhaps, to the voices in the street below. Ordinary voices, in ordinary conversation. Not carefree; the world will always have cares, realized Eve, but not hushed in fear, either. The setting sun sent no one scurrying home for fear of curfew, of Fingermen, of injustice… "It's what he wanted, Mother," says London, almost absently.

And it is, thinks Eve. She gazes out at the city reborn, vital, alive, beautiful in the golden light washing across it. It is exactly what V wanted.

Possibilities. One step at a time, first London, then England, and then, who knew..?

She could do it. One step at a time. She was Eve.

And Eve, asleep in the first rays of the rising sun, smiles, at peace.