While Rosamund abandoned her first rule in order to parade her new catch around the garden, Max made for the drinks table in the grateful shade beneath one of the orange trees. True to form, there was no one to pour the drinks. It wouldn’t be good for relations if the Maltese staff were to witness the excesses of their brothers in suffering. Max was concocting a whisky and soda when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“‘Ah, thou honeysuckle villain.’”

“Henry the Fourth,” Max responded, without turning.

“Not good enough, and you know it.”

Max swiveled to face Hugh, whose forehead, as ever, was beaded with perspiration. It was an old and slightly tedious game of theirs. Hugh liked to toss quotations at him, usually Shakespeare, but not always.

“King Henry the Fourth, Part II,” said Max.

“Damn.”

“Mistress Quickly to Falstaff. I studied it at school.”

“Double damn. That makes three in a row.”

“But only twenty-two out of thirty-eight.”

Hugh gave a little chortle. “Glad to see I’m not the only one keeping score.”

“Speaking of scores, congratulations on your century.”

“Yes, quite a month. One hundred and two, all told.”

“One hundred and one; 249 Squadron are claiming the Stuka over Ta’ Qali yesterday afternoon.”

“Bloody typical.”

“Let them have it. Their heads are down right now.”

“Not for much longer.”

Max hesitated. “So the rumors are true.”

“What’s that, old man?”

“They’re sending us another batch of Spitfires.”

“Couldn’t possibly say—it’s top secret.”

“Then I’ll just have to ask Rosamund.”