DEATH BEFORE WICKET - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

Chapter Fourteen
I could not come back to cricket for a season or two
[after the Great War] and I think cricket itself could
not come back at once. It had been dismayed; it
did not guess in the golden days at things like world
wars, or that its score-books should be splashed with
the blood of the quiet men its votaries.
—Edmund Blunden, Cricket Country
Phryne woke feeling marvellous, stretched, winced a little, and
decided that she still felt wonderful. A little battered, but wonderful.
Sleeping next to her was an Ancient Roman, looking
now perhaps more Ancient Greek, for the curve of the lips was
definitely as close as the twentieth century was going to get to
an archaic smile.
‘Food,’ she whispered into the nearest ear.
‘Breakfast?’ asked Professor Brazell. ‘All of that, plus breakfast?
I thought I’d died and gone to heaven when I s-saw you
burning your underclothes in that pit, Phryne, but now I’m
s-sure of it.’
‘What shall I ask for? Bacon and eggs?’
‘Not idyllic enough. Nectar. Ambrosia. On s-second thought,
I’m starving. Earthly food will have to do. Eggs, bacon, tomatoes,
mushrooms. And toast. A bushel or s-so s-should do.’