Chamberlain answered again. "We do plan. We do prepare. But we must also avoid statements that make conflict more likely. Words can light fires, Honourable Member."

Churchill spoke without rising.

The sound carried anyway. "Sometimes it is the match you refuse to strike that leaves you in the dark."

The Conservative benches erupted.

A younger MP, red at the ears, stood and shook a fist, then sat down when his neighbor tugged his sleeve. "Order!" the Speaker called again, but it took longer to take.

Attlee's voice cut through, mild and unhurried. "I am not persuaded that silence keeps us safe," he said. "Nor am I certain that saying so invites war. We might consider that every time Europe has been carved, we were told it would satisfy appetite. I do not know what is in the secret clauses of this pact. But if we pretend they do not exist, we may find ourselves explaining to our people why events surprised us"

A backbencher with a farmer's hands stood to speak for the shires. "I buried a brother after the last war," he said, eyes fixed on a point just above the front bench.

"My village has the names on stone, and there are too many of them. I will not rush to war again. But I will also not be told that a paper between two men who shoot their own people has made Europe gentle. You can say 'peace' all you like. It doesn't make it true."

That cut a new kind of silence respectful, flat.

The Speaker did not need to call order.

The Home Secretary rose to talk about preparations at home.

He spoke of sandbags and sirens, of leaflets and drills. "These are precautions," he said quickly when he saw faces stiffen. "Not predictions."

"Then why the leaflets?" a voice called.

"So that if we need them, they are not late," he said, and for once there was no heckle in return.

From the press gallery came the persistent scratching of pencils.

The Leader of the Opposition tried again. "Prime Minister, will you at least commit to a guarantee public and firm that if further aggression occurs, Britain will act, not merely protest?"

Chamberlain's jaw tensed. "Britain will always act in defense of her interests and obligations," he said. "But I will not be drawn into hypothetical alarms. I will not announce war in advance."

Churchill rose a second time.

The expectation was sharper now; some faces hardened, others brightened.

He did not smile. "No one asks the Prime Minister to announce war," he said. "We ask him to announce that Britain will not applaud it when it arrives dressed as policy."

He lifted his hand, palm down, and pressed the air. "Do not sing lullabies to a nation that must be awake."

A Conservative from the front bench leaned forward, voice heavy with contempt. "I am tired of your prophecies, Winston. You have been predicting disaster since the day I entered this House. One day you will be right, and you will call it wisdom."

Churchill met him without heat. "I shall be happy to be wrong, as often as possible, in exchange for preparation."

"Order!" The Speaker's voice cracked a little, and he scowled as if someone had betrayed him.

A Scottish MP stood, sleeves a touch too short for his arms. "If this pact is a blessing," he said, "why are we rehearsing for blackouts? Why is my constituency being taught how to tape windows and find shelters? I'm told, 'It's only prudent.' Very well. But prudence is a cousin to fear. And fear knows when it is being lied to."

There was a ripple of something like approval, even from places that had not approved anything he'd said for years.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer spoke numbers as if they were balm. "We are increasing aircraft production," he said. "We are reinforcing our reserves. The Treasury stands ready to support industry. There is no cause for panic."

"Cause enough for overtime," someone muttered.

An older Tory rose, a relic from another war. "We must not terrify the City," he warned. "Markets cannot endure constant alarms."

"The City will endure what men's bones must endure," a woman called from the Labour benches, and the House, momentarily startled at the cut of her voice, murmured.

The hour stretched. MPs rotated in and out.

The galleries filled and emptied.

Papers piled on the table and slid to the floor.

The air grew heavy and warm.

The clock's gilded hands crawled.

Chamberlain closed his argument carefully, as if laying one more layer of varnish on a chair. "We are not deaf to danger," he said. "But we will not govern by it. In the wake of this pact, we will continue our conversations with all parties. This is not naiveté. It is resolve. The British people desire peace. So does their government."

Attlee gave a small nod to show he had heard.

Churchill did not move.

The Speaker called for order again and announced a motion an expression of confidence in the government's handling of foreign affairs.

Groans from one side, sighs of relief from the other.

The whips were already counting, lips moving as they ran numbers like abacuses.

Before the division, Churchill asked for one more minute.

The Speaker hesitated and then allowed it. "One minute," he said, holding up a finger as if he could pin the House to it.

Churchill used twenty seconds. "I wish the Prime Minister success," he said. "Truly. If his policy brings peace, I will be the first to cheer and the last to carp. But I beg the House do not confuse quiet for safety. Do not confuse surprise for strategy. If there is more to this pact than we are told and I believe there is then what we call calm today will be remembered as slumber."

He sat.

The sound that followed was not applause or boos but a rolling growl, a crowded room deciding how loudly to disagree.

The doors were unlocked.

The bells rang through the building.

Members filed through the lobbies, rubbing shoulders with enemies and friends alike, muttering arithmetic under their breath.

In the government lobby, a junior whip clapped shoulders and smiled until his cheeks hurt.

In the opposition lobby, a veteran counted names with a pencil stub and muttered, "Close."