the handle, the metal chilly beneath her fingers, and opened the door.
It was the dog. The dog whoâd been waiting for them when they arrived at the station, and then at the hotel, was standing outside the door, wagging his tail and looking just as normal and cheerful and doggy as ever. Rose didnât care how heâd got into the hotel, or what he was doing there. She was just pleased to see him.
The dog seemed pleased to see Rose too. He gave a polite little wuff of recognition, then turned and ran off down the dark landing, his claws clicking against the floorboards.
The floorboards.
But the floor on the landing was carpeted, like her bedroom. Wasnât it?
She looked down. Beneath her bare feet was dark polished wood, like the floor downstairs in the lobby.
âWuff!â
The dog waited till she looked up at him and then ran off up the stairs.
Up. The stairs.
Up . . .
Roseâs room was on the top floor. There were no stairs going up. She was at the top of the building. But there they were. The stairs, a narrow flight, uncarpeted, with a wooden handrail, heading up.
To where? Where did they go?
Rose ducked back into her room, shoved her feet into her boots, and then ran after the dog up the stairs that didnât exist into the darkness at the top. She could just see him waiting for her on the landing, looking expectantly at a closed door. It was clear he wanted to go in.
She put a hand on the doorknob. It was wooden, not cold to the touch like the metal one downstairs. The door swungopen and Rose followed the dog inside.
It was a small room, smaller even than Roseâs, full of disorder and moonlight. The single bed was unmade and there was a half-packed suitcase open on the floor. Clothes were spilling out of a small chest of drawers against the wall. A pair of lace-up boots had been left lying by the bed, and a long dark coat hung on a hook on the back of the door.
For a moment, Rose just stood there, trying to take it all in. What was this place? What was going on?
She bent down to pick up a picture that had fallen off the chest and was lying face down on the floor. The face of a young man in uniform stared back at her from behind the broken glass. Another of those sad-eyed wartime faces. She placed the picture carefully back on the chest and shivered. It was freezing â and no wonder. The window was wide open, the curtains blowing in an icy wind, and there was snow on the floor.
And then she heard them again:
âI wonder whoâs kissing her now . . .â
The menâs voices swelled, filling the darkness. The singing was louder up here. More real.
Rose moved across the room as if an invisible thread was pulling her to the window. She seemed to have no choice.
The square was familiar in the moonlight, but the misty drizzle had disappeared and now snowflakes were swirling through the darkness and whitening the cobblestones.
But that wasnât all. Because they were there. The soldiers. A hundred of them, maybe two hundred, marching four abreast, hunched in their khaki uniforms, packs on their backs, rifles over their shoulders, tramping throughthe snow, singing their bittersweet song of longing and regret.
Rose stared. For one mad moment she thought it was maybe some parade, a historical re-enactment, a film was being made . . .
And then she thought, In the middle of the night? With no one else there? And what about the snow? And the fact that Iâm watching from a room that doesnât actually exist?
As Rose watched them, it felt like she and the soldiers were the only people in the world. Yet none of them saw her. Not a single one looked up. They just marched on, eyes front, weary, focused on getting wherever they had to be. To them, Rose didnât exist.
And then she saw him, at the very back of the line. He was smaller than the others, skinny and marching slightly out of time with a little skip in his step. And in his buttonhole was
It was the dog. The dog whoâd been waiting for them when they arrived at the station, and then at the hotel, was standing outside the door, wagging his tail and looking just as normal and cheerful and doggy as ever. Rose didnât care how heâd got into the hotel, or what he was doing there. She was just pleased to see him.
The dog seemed pleased to see Rose too. He gave a polite little wuff of recognition, then turned and ran off down the dark landing, his claws clicking against the floorboards.
The floorboards.
But the floor on the landing was carpeted, like her bedroom. Wasnât it?
She looked down. Beneath her bare feet was dark polished wood, like the floor downstairs in the lobby.
âWuff!â
The dog waited till she looked up at him and then ran off up the stairs.
Up. The stairs.
Up . . .
Roseâs room was on the top floor. There were no stairs going up. She was at the top of the building. But there they were. The stairs, a narrow flight, uncarpeted, with a wooden handrail, heading up.
To where? Where did they go?
Rose ducked back into her room, shoved her feet into her boots, and then ran after the dog up the stairs that didnât exist into the darkness at the top. She could just see him waiting for her on the landing, looking expectantly at a closed door. It was clear he wanted to go in.
She put a hand on the doorknob. It was wooden, not cold to the touch like the metal one downstairs. The door swungopen and Rose followed the dog inside.
It was a small room, smaller even than Roseâs, full of disorder and moonlight. The single bed was unmade and there was a half-packed suitcase open on the floor. Clothes were spilling out of a small chest of drawers against the wall. A pair of lace-up boots had been left lying by the bed, and a long dark coat hung on a hook on the back of the door.
For a moment, Rose just stood there, trying to take it all in. What was this place? What was going on?
She bent down to pick up a picture that had fallen off the chest and was lying face down on the floor. The face of a young man in uniform stared back at her from behind the broken glass. Another of those sad-eyed wartime faces. She placed the picture carefully back on the chest and shivered. It was freezing â and no wonder. The window was wide open, the curtains blowing in an icy wind, and there was snow on the floor.
And then she heard them again:
âI wonder whoâs kissing her now . . .â
The menâs voices swelled, filling the darkness. The singing was louder up here. More real.
Rose moved across the room as if an invisible thread was pulling her to the window. She seemed to have no choice.
The square was familiar in the moonlight, but the misty drizzle had disappeared and now snowflakes were swirling through the darkness and whitening the cobblestones.
But that wasnât all. Because they were there. The soldiers. A hundred of them, maybe two hundred, marching four abreast, hunched in their khaki uniforms, packs on their backs, rifles over their shoulders, tramping throughthe snow, singing their bittersweet song of longing and regret.
Rose stared. For one mad moment she thought it was maybe some parade, a historical re-enactment, a film was being made . . .
And then she thought, In the middle of the night? With no one else there? And what about the snow? And the fact that Iâm watching from a room that doesnât actually exist?
As Rose watched them, it felt like she and the soldiers were the only people in the world. Yet none of them saw her. Not a single one looked up. They just marched on, eyes front, weary, focused on getting wherever they had to be. To them, Rose didnât exist.
And then she saw him, at the very back of the line. He was smaller than the others, skinny and marching slightly out of time with a little skip in his step. And in his buttonhole was
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