Thomas’s mother still lived there, not far from St. Paul’s Cathedral, and despite the fact that the bombings were continuous, she was insistent upon staying put. This is my home, Thomas, she’d written in her last letter. If I let the Germans force me to leave, they’ve won, haven’t they?

He had replied right away, reminding her that the Germans would also win if they managed to take her life. Won’t you consider departing for a time, Mother? he’d asked. Harry’s aunt Cecilia in Loughton would love to have you stay for as long as you’d like. I’m certain I can take a few days’ leave to help you get settled. But he hadn’t received a reply, and now, as he began to write the letter honoring Oliver’s life, he tried not to think about what it would be like for his own mother to receive such a note one day. After all, they had only each other; his father had died when Thomas was a boy, and there was no other family to speak of.

Dear Mrs. Smith, he began. As you may know, Oliver and I were friends since the first day we met at Desford. He had a special way about him, a talent for making the fellows double over with laughter. Now, though we still try to maintain some sort of levity, if only to save ourselves from succumbing to fear and sadness, it’s simply not the same. Oliver died a hero. As you must know by now, he shot down two German planes near London on the very night he died. Your son saved dozens, if not hundreds, of lives. It’s little consolation, but—

Thomas had just paused, considering exactly how to frame his words of comfort, when there was a loud knocking. He checked his watch. Nearly midnight. A knot in his stomach, he set down the pen and walked to the door.

“Clarke.” It was Thomas’s CO, his expression weary.

“Sir? Has something happened?”

The CO hesitated for a moment. “It’s your mother, Clarke.”

Thomas’s vision went blurry for an instant. “My mother, sir?”

“Her home was hit,” the CO said, not quite meeting Thomas’s eye. “She didn’t make it. I’ve just received confirmation.”

Thomas’s mouth went dry. “Sir, you’re saying—”

“She died, Clarke. I’m very sorry.”

“No, no, that can’t be.” How many flights had he flown over London? How many plots had he chased off, how many planes had he downed? He had fooled himself into thinking that he could keep his mother safe. After all, there were signs that the RAF was regaining control of the British skies. And every time he soared over the city where he’d been born and raised, every time he saw the dome of St. Paul’s, he imagined that he could see his childhood home below the smoke and clouds. “When?” he asked. “I thought there hadn’t been a major attack since the twenty-ninth of December.”

That was the night the Nazis had dropped more than one hundred thousand bombs on London, pummeling the city’s heart.

His CO hesitated. “She was injured that very night, Clarke. Apparently, her home was hit directly. It took rescuers a long time to sift through the rubble, and she was barely alive when they found her. She never woke up, and it took some time to identify her.”

Thomas wanted to scream, but he was paralyzed. “Do you know—” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Do you know exactly when she died, sir?” What good was he doing in the cockpit if he was powerless to save the person he cared most about in the world?

“Six days ago. I’m very sorry.”

Six days. Six days when he’d been worrying about Oliver’s family. Six days when he’d smiled and laughed and believed everything was normal. She’d been gone that whole time, and he hadn’t felt it. Somehow, this was as hard to bear as the death itself.

“Clarke, you’ll need to take care of arrangements,” the CO said after the silence grew heavy and thick. “I will plan for you to have a few days’ leave.”

“But I should be here. Who will stop the Nazis?”

The CO cracked a tired smile. “There’s a whole squadron of men out there trying to do just that. And many other squadrons across Britain, Clarke. We’ll make it without you for a day or two.”

“I—I can’t.”

“You must.” The CO’s smile faded. “I’m led to believe you’re her only kin.”

“Yes, sir.” It wasn’t until that moment that Thomas realized how very true those words were. He was alone in the world now.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, sir.” Thomas could barely hear his own voice over the rushing sound in his ears. He longed to look into his mother’s eyes, to see her bright smile, to feel her thin, fragile arms around him once more. He could remember her patiently teaching him to read, walking him to his first day of school, smiling as she proudly served a roast for just the two of them nearly every Sunday afternoon of his boyhood. He could see the worry in her eyes the day he told her he was joining the RAF, but also the pride. Be well and safe, Thomas, she had said, cupping her small, worn hands on either side of his face. Just come home to me.

As his CO bid him good night and Thomas closed the door, he realized there was no one else in the world to wait for him now.

CHAPTER NINE

April 1941

When Ruby awoke on an April morning with dawn filtering through the curtains, she was alone for the second day in a row. Marcel had disappeared more than forty-eight hours ago with no indication of when he’d be back.

“One day,” she said to the baby, “this war will be over, and we’ll have a good life, you and I. Your papa will be there too,” she added as an afterthought. “He’s going to love you very much.”

She smiled at the sharp kick that she could see through the wall of her belly, and then, with her stomach rumbling, she got out of bed to begin her day. Ruby often awoke with a drumbeat of movement deep in her womb now, making her feel less alone. She had decided that the baby was a boy, that he would look very much like Marcel, and that when Marcel first laid eyes upon him, it would change everything. Perhaps she was as na?ve as he accused her of being, but she preferred to think of it as hopeful.

She had just put on her dress–one of three empire-waist cotton maternity dresses she’d sewed from a pattern—when there was a knock at the door. She answered and found a small, bald, middle-aged man with thick glasses standing there, clutching his hat to his chest. He stared at her for a moment, and she at him. His clothes were rumpled, but there was something about his posture and bearing that hinted at a dignified station in life. “Can I help you?” she asked.

He glanced from her face to her belly and back again before clearing his throat. “I’m looking for the man of the house,” he said, his flawless French inflected by an accent that Ruby couldn’t quite place.

“He’s not here right now,” Ruby said. “Perhaps I can assist you with something.”

The man hesitated. “I hadn’t realized Monsieur Benoit had a wife.”

“May I ask how you know him?” The man’s repeated glances at her belly were making her uneasy.

“You are expecting a child, I see?”

“You are quite observant,” Ruby said.

When the man looked up, apparently startled by her tone, she thought she saw something like kindness in his eyes for an instant, but then it was gone. “He should have informed us.”

“Who are you?” Ruby demanded. When the man didn’t answer, she added, “You are not French.”

“Of course I am.” The man was already backing away.

“Wait! Won’t you tell me who you are?”

But the man had already turned and was hurrying down the stairs. The last thing she saw before he disappeared out the front door was one final concerned glance at her belly, as if she was concealing a bomb that could explode at any moment, destroying them all.

BY THE TIME MARCEL RETURNED, late that night, Ruby had gone over the strange encounter again and again in her head, and with each repetition, she’d felt more unsettled. The man’s accent had been hard on the consonants, a bit like the way Nazi soldiers spoke when they were barking orders. My God, she thought, her stomach turning. What if Marcel is helping the Germans?

And suddenly, the pieces were falling into place, and Ruby felt ill. His long absences. His lack of regard for the German regulations, as if they didn’t apply to him. The war of morals she could see going on inside him. It all made sense. But how could he do such a thing? To collaborate would be unconscionable.

“You had a visitor today,” she said when he slipped in the door. He visibly startled; he hadn’t expected to find her glaring at him from the dining table.

“What are you doing out of bed?” It wasn’t the reply of an innocent man.

“Waiting for you.”

He stared at her across the flickering darkness. “What do you mean I had a visitor?”

“A man,” she said slowly. “A man who seemed stunned to realize I existed.”

As Marcel opened and closed his mouth like a fish, she could feel her heart hardening. He had put them in danger, Ruby and the baby, and he had the gall to stand there looking affronted.

“Well, who was it?”

Ruby looked him straight in the eye. “Your handler, I assume.”

“What?”

“Or perhaps that’s not the right term. Der Meister, is it? Is that not how they say it in German?”

His face turned white. “Der . . . what? The man who came here was German?”