Movement Five — The Most Beautiful Woman in the World

"I remembered the most beautiful woman in the world," I said. "Or that's what I called her, once."

I want you to understand what it cost me to say that plainly, in that particular company, at that particular moment. Vesper's whole body had gone taut against my side, her bite still faintly warm against the back of my hand, and Iris had gone quiet in the specific way she goes quiet right before she decides whether something deserves teasing or genuine attention. Both of them looked at me — properly looked, the way you look at someone who has just said something considerably braver than the moment strictly called for — and I understood, watching their two faces turn toward mine, that I had very little chance of surviving the rest of that afternoon without an explanation attached to it.

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So I gave them one.