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And then he saw her.

That wretched cleaner again, the one with the shapely hips, on her knees once more, giving close attention to one of the tombstones. Blimey, but she is diligent, he thought. So focused she didn’t even look around when he stepped into the space.

He toyed momentarily with the idea of asking if she might be kind enough to give him some private time in the oratory, but he immediately thought better of it. He was the intruder. This woman was simply doing her job – doing it well.

Peter sighed softly and gave a small cough; she didn’t seem to have noticed his arrival and he didn’t want to startle her. Again, she didn’t look up.

Unable to resist any longer, he looked up at the painting and took it in, blinking in pleasure as if taking a snapshot of this moment.

He was back in Valletta.

He was back with Caravaggio.

He was… happy.

It felt ridiculous, but his eyes watered with that final thought. When had he last felt at such peace with himself? Ludicrously, it had been twelve years ago when he was last here, when his life was in danger every single day. Real danger. Flying directly into the path of someone who wanted to kill him. It had been terrifying and yet he had felt more alive in 1942 than he had ever felt since. Until now.

He let his gaze roam over the painting. So much pain and despair were encapsulated in the beautifully wrought image; it seemed to sum up the last dozen years of his life. He knew he was being dramatic, but it wasn’t so much about the subject matter but how the painting made him feel, echoing the sentiment of his life in recent memory. The dread that each day of not really living, not thriving, but simply existing had brought him.

If not for his work…

The woman gave a soft sigh as she straightened, distracting him from the painting. He glanced over. She was beautiful in profile, a chiselled look to her face, slim and angular. She looked tired – not just fatigued, though. Tired with life.

He knew the feeling.

To his surprise, she was staring at the painting too, not at all interested in him. He couldn’t see her eyes but he knew her gaze was riveted, lost to the moment of John the Baptist’s death. He was amazed by her stillness. He couldn’t tell whether it was for his benefit, so as not to interrupt his visit, or whether she was as entranced as she appeared.

The silence suddenly felt awkward.

He cleared his throat. ‘Good morning,’ he said, hoping she understood English. ‘I’m here in preparation for the visit of the British royals. My name is Peter Fox.’

Valentina had sat up, desperate to give her back some respite. Besides, she really couldn’t clean that particular tombstone any more than she had, having lingered long enough. The visitor was clearly not in a hurry to leave, and she needed to change position or she’d be limping home.

She was aware of him staring at the painting, but she still refused to so much as turn his way. She didn’t want to make eye contact, conversation or even small talk. But he kept glancing her way as if studying her.

Valentina pushed up from the granite and marble, smoothed over the years, to stand, stretching her back slightly, never taking her eyes from the painting. She made no sound but somewhere in her body, her bones sighed their gratitude.

A sixth sense told her the man had glanced her way yet again; perhaps he’d heard the soft crack of relief.

And then he spoke.

The secondary shock of what he said came on top of the primary shock of hearing his voice. She knew the voice so well, had heard it in her dreams. It was deeper, gruffer somehow, but it was unmistakable.

Valentina turned to face him now, aware her mouth was falling open and that tears were welling. She was no stranger to tears, but these arrived with the alarm of recognition, of memory, of nostalgia and unrequited love. It was the shock of daydreams coming true.

Valentina had often entertained the fantasy over the years that Flight Lieutenant Peter Fox would one day walk back into her life. She knew it was fiction, girlish dreaming, but it kept her going, comforting her through dark days. She’d never expected it to become reality, though. Hadn’t even imagined a way that it might.

And yet here he was.

Unmistakably Peter.

As tall as she remembered, and a feathering of grey at his ears where he still kept his hair cut short and neat, but had he really aged? Barely. He still looked boyish and yet he couldn’t be; he was somehow defying the years, staying youthful and unweathered. Lines creased his forehead, but she saw they were created by confusion, sudden worry.

‘I’m sorry, miss. Are you all right?’

She tried to speak. Truly she did. But her throat was so dry, her tongue too, she couldn’t form words.

He stepped forward, concerned. ‘Miss?’ he said again, looking around for help, perhaps fearful she might faint.