The Veterans' Club was on King Street: a clean, respectable facade set between other clean, respectable facades, differing only in that a narrow alley slipped in on one side, lancing into the dark inner workings between it and its neighbour. The front doors were tall, solid oak, with great brass knockers which had never been lifted since the day they were installed; tall windows flanked it, three on each side, their height making them seem narrower than they actually were. Before the doors was the portico, with limestone steps descending to the street on one side. A brass plaque on the wall proclaimed the establishment's identity in letters too small and too ornate to be made out from street-level. No-one had paid that plaque much attention in decades: if you had to stop to check the address, you were clearly in the wrong place.

A man and a woman stepped out of the study of the country house--temporarily repurposed as a hospital for the War--and carefully closed the door behind them. They walked down the hall, keeping as much distance between them as possible.