Page 34 of The Mademoiselle Alliance

33

The Noose of Pink Heather

London, September 1943

W hale fishing is a dangerous occupation, is the coded message the BBC plays the next morning to tell Mahout to come out again with his team for Operation Ingres.

All day I think, I’d rather go whale fishing than say goodbye .

In my last moment with Léon, I try one final time. “Even the plane refuses to take you back. What if it was a warning?”

Léon touches a hand to our wedding ring, hiding beneath his shirt. “It was just the moon, Minerva,” he says. “I love you.”

Then he and Magpie leave once more.

—

Barbara’s knitting needles click. The clock ticks. My heart tears itself to pieces: one piece for the soap I didn’t accept. One piece for the paté we shared in his hotel room when we realized we were talking to kindred spirits. One piece for our first Christmas, when I told him I was pregnant.

One piece for our son.

Tick tick. Click click. Rip. Rip.

A clock. A needle. A heart.

It’s only one o’clock when the phone rings.

“Tea for our new friend,” Major Bertram says.

It means Léon and Magpie are in France.

Minutes later, Maurice walks in.

I throw my arms around the duke’s neck and he holds me as if he knows how much I need comfort.

But his words don’t bring comfort.

“It was chaos at the landing field,” he says. “The old airman’s intuition told me we were being watched.”

The headache that’s been threatening all day starts to pound. “Eagle…?” I whisper.

“I told him to leave as fast as he could.” He gives me one last squeeze. “Don’t worry. He always gets away.”

Barbara summons us over to the table. I think food goes into my mouth. Certainly whiskey does. But all I can think about is Magpie’s first message, due to come in at one o’clock tomorrow. Only when it says that Magpie and Léon both made it to Paris will I finally let go of the noose of pink heather that’s tied around my neck.