When he set the satchel on the table, Nadya flipped it open. She drew out the first of the images, smiling at seeing exactly what she’d instructed Paul’s photographer friend to create. It may not be quite as incriminating as the first one they’d produced. But it would tell a story. A continuing story. “Also simple,” she said.

Evgeni didn’t look quite as cheerful as he pulled out a chair and sat. “That’s right. We’re convincing the authorities in England that Zivon is one of us. Which will mean, to their way of thinking—”

“He’s not one of them.” Paul smiled and pulled out the second chair. “I believe I’m beginning to understand.”

17

FRIDAY, 7 JUNE 1918

There. Lily held the magnifying glass over the image, finally happy that everything was blended properly. For a moment, she could take satisfaction simply in a job well done. At least until the questions started tapping away at her heart again.

What would this one be used for? All she’d been asked to do was remove someone from the background—probably one of Hall’s agents. This was, in all likelihood, one of those cases where she was helping preserve someone’s secrecy. The photo would be slipped into a file somewhere, replacing an original, perhaps. Or fed to an enemy. Something good. Helpful.

Right?

Blustering out a sigh, Lily swung around to put the magnifying glass away and knocked her elbow, for the twelfth time in the last two and a half weeks, into the table against the wall. Her “Ouch!” turned to a growl. And maybe a frustration-relieving slap to the offending piece of furniture’s top.

This was not working. Her home darkroom was fine for a few rolls of film at a time, or working for an hour here or there. But not until she’d tried to move all of her equipment from the OB in here did she realize how small it was. She had prints in the drying rack, prints clipped to lines above, prints stacked on every possible surface. She had furniture pushed this way and that to try to accommodate the new additions.

As a result, she barely had room to turn around, much less accomplish anything.

And she meant to relay that to Daddy and Blinker this evening, when the admiral and his family came over to dine with them.

“Lilian.” Mama’s voice was accompanied by a light knock on the door. “Ivy is home. You had better go upstairs to prepare for dinner.”

“Yes, Mama.” They’d established a peace . . . of sorts. All conversations were civil. They put on smiling faces whenever anyone else was around. Mama hadn’t made a peep when Daddy announced that Lily’s resignation had been refused and all the supplies from the OB were carted to the house.