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She’d still wondered after every night of bombing if, this time, they’d hit her mother.

If the one blood relative she had left in the world had been snatched from her, and how long it would be until she’d know it, if so.

She’d never known her insides could twist so tight, that an empty flat could weigh so heavy.

This new information, though—it didn’t change things, not really, but it made it all the worse.

She hadn’t thought it could get worse than bombs raining down on the city where her mother was living. But it turned out, all that was needed to achieve such a thing was a crueler bomb.

She granted herself one long breath and then moved to the phone, dialing her uncle’s home number first and, when there was no answer, resorting to his secondary one that he put on his cards. It was on its fifth ring when there was a knock at her door.

He didn’t even grant her time to panic before calling out, “It’s me, mon chouchou .”

She let out a huff of relief and put the receiver back in its cradle, hurrying to let Oncle Georges in. “Are you a mind reader now? I was just trying to call you.”

“Oh?” He flashed her a grin and stepped inside. “Good to know I’m keeping up my knack for being in the right place at the right time.”

She closed the door behind him, frowning at the suitcase he was carrying. The weight in her stomach increased threefold. “You’re leaving Paris?”

He did it frequently, for a day or two, for reasons she never dared to ask. But for those quick trips, he never carried a suitcase, just an old rucksack from his military days, over his shoulder.

His smile made no sense at all. It was full of mischief—delight even. “On the contrary. I’ve just brought you a present.”

She narrowed her eyes, given that the last present he’d brought her had been black-market sweets. “It’s not illegal bonbons again, is it?”

“Oh, Rinny. You couldn’t be further from the truth.” He strode toward the kitchen, pushing her things aside unceremoniously so he could set the suitcase on the table. A few quick movements and the latches were undone, the suitcase open, and neatly folded clothes in view.

She shifted into place at his side, curiosity compounding into something more like wonder as he did something she couldn’t quite catch, but which presumably released some other locking mechanism—because in the next moment he lifted out a tray that the clothes rested on, and then undid the lining in the top too.

Revealing...mechanical things. She didn’t know what they were, but they looked almost like... “What is that?” Her voice was low as a hiss, stealthy as a whisper.

“Suitcase wireless set,” he replied, voice low but casual.

No, not casual— bright . Like a boy with a new toy.

“Something else, isn’t it?” His words had shifted into English, which they rarely did unless it was for a purpose.

“They’ve been working on this sort of technology for ages—I volunteered to do a field test for them.

Could be months or years yet before they’re ready to send them out with agents, but we have to be sure the technology will work at such a distance, with interference from Nazi radios. ”

Corinne dropped to a chair, ears buzzing. He had a wireless set? In a suitcase? In her flat ? “Have you gone mad?” She made her words English, too, since he had. “If you get caught with that—”

“Please.” A condescending look for a single beat, then another grin. “Though if you don’t want to speak with your mother—”

“What?” She snapped up straight, gaze pinballing from him to the contraption. “Maman?”

“This comes to us courtesy of Bletchley Park, Rin. With instructions saying that she and David will be listening specifically for our messages at four each afternoon.”

She checked her watch—five minutes until four. Then studied the equipment again. “Is it telegraph or—”

“Radio.” In proof, he unhooked one of the pieces and pulled it out—it looked more or less like a telephone receiver.

Tears clouded her eyes. “You mean...I can really talk to her? Hear her?”

He offered the receiver. “Don’t count on it sounding quite like the BBC, but yes.

” He fished headphones from their nest and handed those over too.

“I’ll get it set up.” But he paused a second later, eyes finally falling to the book and papers he’d moved aside.

“Is that something of interest to report? Is that why you were calling?”

She tried to blink back the tears, but the blighted things kept burning. She nodded and handed him the decryption, watching his mirth fade into the serious facade she was more accustomed to seeing these days.

He muttered a word she didn’t care to translate and rubbed a hand over his face. “Delayed detonation—that will let the bombs penetrate deeper into buildings. More destruction.”

“I know.” She positioned the headphones over her ears. “I don’t know how knowing it will help them, but...”

“But it’s always better to know. Even when knowing can’t mean action.” He set the paper in front of her and went about powering up the set with a few flips of switches. “Go ahead and report it to them, but be certain to use the code names we’ve devised for every person and place.”

“I remember.” How could she forget, when saying a name could mean getting that person captured and killed? “Is there risk of the signal being intercepted?”

“Always—but as long as you don’t give away locations or people, it’s just more babble in the air that means nothing to anyone but us. And so far as I know, the Germans are still behind us in interception technology. Even so, if we can do it, we’d better assume they can.”

Corinne nodded, jumping a bit as a crackle filled her ears. Just static for a minute, but then precisely at four, she heard a masculine voice.

“This is Atlas One, for Blanche and the dragon slayer. Atlas One, over.”

Her eyes slid shut. David. She’d only met him once, briefly, and wouldn’t have recognized his voice under any other circumstance—but she knew it now.

David, Papa’s nephew who had grown up across the Atlantic, spending half his life in America and half in England.

A regular Atlantean, she had called him— Atlas One , he’d dubbed himself.

Her call sign was more a joke—a play on her favorite childhood fairy tale, Snow White. Blanche. And of course, Oncle Georges had opted for the saint who bore his name and supposedly slayed a dragon. “This is Blanche. Go ahead, Atlas One. Is Evergreen there? Over.”

Yvonne , a feminization of yew , an evergreen tree. “This is Evergreen. Over.”

Maman! Corinne had to cover her mouth to hold back the sob that wanted to burst free.

It didn’t sound clear as if she were in the room with her, or even quite like if she was on the phone somewhere in Paris.

There was static and background noise and a distortion that made her mother’s voice sound a bit too high.

But it was her . “Evergreen,” she finally whispered. “It is good to hear your voice. Over.”

“I was just thinking the same, Blanche. You are well? We’ve heard horrible things.”

“ You have? This Blitz—”

“Radio protocol, Blanche,” her uncle chided as she and her mother spoke over each other, creating crackling chaos.

She nodded. Gripped the receiver. And let her eyes slide closed.

Her mother was alive. Her mother was well. Annoying as all the “over” business was, if it meant hearing her more clearly, she’d rein herself in.

They could only speak for a few minutes, so it was all basic updating and assurances, and then she passed along the news from “Little Egret” about the new delayed action bombs that the Nazis had been bragging about.

All too soon, they were signing off, and Oncle Georges was powering the radio down again.

“We can’t use this often,” he said as he quickly packed it all up and away again. “And not from the same place twice in a row. Next week, we’ll call from my flat. The week after that, from the office. Then perhaps here again. Understand?”

She didn’t, really—she knew it had something to do with tracing signals, though the science of it was beyond what she’d bothered to learn. But his point was clear enough. “All right.”

“I’d better go. If I’m caught with this thing, I don’t want it to be anywhere near you.” He took two strides, out of the dining area and into the bookcase-lined living room. And then he halted.

Only then did she realize what he’d be seeing—what it was a miracle he hadn’t spotted the moment he entered, and he’d be kicking himself for being so distracted.

The blocks. The crayons. The papers with “Felix the Pirate” scratched crookedly onto them because “Goldenhair” was too long to write, he’d said.

“Corinne...have you been babysitting?”

She’d known it was only a matter of time before he found out, given the way he dropped by unannounced. But when week after week had slid by without him crossing paths with them, she had dared to hope it could continue.

No—she wasn’t that naive. She’d just decided she wouldn’t invite that particular trouble until it came pounding on her door. “You remember Josef Horowitz?”

He turned slowly back to face her. “Of course. I didn’t realize he was back in Paris though.”

“He is, but under a new name—a French name, with French papers. For him and his grandson, Felix. He’s keeping a low profile though, of course, and needs help now and then with the little boy.”

A perfectly reasonable, logical explanation. And true, every word of it.

But Oncle Georges’s eyes still narrowed. “And since when do you volunteer to help with children?”

Her mouth dropped open. “I have watched Desirée plenty of times for Madame Dardenne!” Well, twice. But he didn’t know that. “You act as if I’m opposed to children, when all I’ve ever said is that I’m in no hurry to have them and have no interest in teaching at that level.”

His face shifted back to neutral, but his gaze stayed locked on her. Reading. Deciphering. Decoding. “What aren’t you telling me.”

Not a question. And she knew better than to give him anything but the truth. Even so, he’d have to settle for part of the remaining truth. “The little boy, Felix—he was smuggled out of Germany because of facial deformities. They wanted to euthanize him.”

Her uncle winced, but she could see the suspicion turn into compassion. “Monsters.”

“We’ve fit him with an eye patch to cover the missing eye, and his hair is long enough to cover the deformed ear. Everyone thinks he was hurt at Dunkerque when their hotel was bombed.”

The corner of his mouth pulled up. “Like Old Jacques, eh?”

“Exactly. He speaks French like a native at this point, and you know Josef does too. They’ve moved flats, away from the neighbors who knew them as the Horowitzes.

I know it’s a risk for them to come here, so close to the library, where people might recognize Josef, but he needed help, and Felix took to me. ”

It was an over-explanation, but he’d expect as much from her when he thought she’d be afraid of him telling her to cut off her friends.

Round and round the deception swirled—deceiving even with truth. No lie, and yet the most important fact, withheld.

He couldn’t know about Christian. That would be a bridge too far.

He eased closer to her again and pressed a kiss to her brow. “I always knew you had a soft heart buried somewhere underneath all the mischief.”

She puffed out a breath and gave him a friendly shove. “Take it back.”

He chuckled and turned away again. “I trust you to be cautious, mon chouchou . And I trust Josef to be too. For now. But if restrictions increase, they may need to leave Paris again. I can try to help if you need me to. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to move in and out of Nazi territory, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve still. ”

He had a soft heart too, buried under the decades of secrets. “Thank you, Oncle. Let’s hope they don’t need it.”

The look he sent her as he let himself out the door haunted her the rest of the night. A look that said, They will . And pitied her for thinking otherwise.