As she came to the top of the first flight, she heard raised voices. Then a male voice said, quite distinctly, "Aw, bugger!"

"Such language. Behave yourself, Flight Lieutenant Kerr," said a booming woman's voice. "Just lie still. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Not going to hurt me? It's about time someone taught you how to change dressings without ripping off half a patient's skin," replied a man's voice with a strange accent.

Curiosity drew Emily to the open door. The man lay on a narrow bed, the large figure of a nurse looming over him. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. He had unruly red-blond hair and a tanned, outdoor look to him quite unlike the pale English young men Emily was used to. She hadn't realized that she was standing and staring until suddenly he looked up past the nurse and spotted Emily standing there. She had no time to shrink back out of sight. His eyes lit up, and to her embarrassment he winked at her.

"I'm doing my best, Lieutenant," the nurse said. "You have to understand that changing burn dressings is not an easy task."

"Not with sausage fingers like yours," he replied. "You ought to let that young lady volunteer do it for you. Look at her dainty little hands. I bet she wouldn't skin me alive."

The nurse spun around to see Emily standing there, red-faced. "This young lady is only a visitor," she said, "and would no doubt be horrified at your language. And for your information I qualified at one of the best London hospitals and have changed thousands of dressings."

"Old cow," the man muttered.

"What did you say?"

"I said, ‘Okay for now,'" he replied, looking up at her innocently. Emily turned away, pressing her lips together, afraid she'd burst out laughing.

"Don't go," the young man called after her. "Come and talk to me. I haven't seen a pretty face in months."

"I'm afraid I have to take these cakes up to Matron's room," Emily said, conscious of the nurse glaring at her.

"You're not even going to share your goodies with poor wounded blokes like us?" he asked. "We're the severe cases, you know. All flyers."

"You're not severe, you're all hopeless," the nurse said, "and I've no doubt that the young lady will be back with cakes for you when it's your turn. But only if you behave yourselves."

"We'll all be as good as gold, Nurse," he said, and he shot Emily a grin as she turned back to look at him.

The nurse followed her out into the hallway. "I must apologize, Miss Bryce. He's Australian, you know. No sense of propriety or decorum, as far as I can see. We've just received several of them into this ward. All members of the Royal Flying Corps—aviators, brave boys. Personally, I think they need their heads examined, flying in the sky with a craft that is essentially held together with paper and string. So I am trying to give them more leeway than I would in normal circumstances—knowing what lies before them, I mean."

When Emily looked at her curiously, the nurse moved closer and lowered her voice. "The life expectancy of a pilot in the Royal Flying Corps is six weeks, Miss Bryce."