He pushed open the door with a flourish and bowed. “Ladies first.”

Lily couldn’t laugh now. She could only smile a bit, and then a bit more when she saw Daddy folded into a chair before the desk, clearly waiting for them. “Well, Lily White? Have you managed it?”

“Mama says I have—and you daren’t argue with her.” Her grin soon faded as she held out the photograph for Hall’s perusal. “I hope it will do, sir. Though it’s not a photograph I ever thought to create.”

“Create being the key word, my dear. Not take. Never would you have occasion to take a photo of our boys in revolt.” He sat on the edge of his desk, lifted a magnifying glass, and studied the image.

Praise God for that truth. As much despair as she’d seen in the injured soldiers she’d nursed and as she heard in the voices of men home on leave, they’d never lost their determination to see it through. Just their belief that there was a purpose to it.

She glanced over her shoulder at her mother. That would just have to be their job when this was over—showing those lads through their art that there was still something to live for. Something to believe in. There was still a God in heaven, and He still loved His children . . . even when His children had failed to love one another.

Hall looked up, and the half smile on his face told her she’d done her job—this job—well. “Excellent work as always, Miss Blackwell. You have served king and country faithfully and fully.” He straightened and barked out, “Elton!”

“Yes, sir?” Margot’s husband stepped into the office. Lily hadn’t realized he was back in London, but she could never keep up with his comings and goings.

Hall held out the photo. “You’re going back to the Continent this evening, correct? See this gets into the hands of Agent Twenty-Two.”

Drake nodded and reached for it. “I’ll have it to him by morning, sir.”

“Good. And then report back here.” Hall tugged down his jacket, lifted his chin. “This war is about to end. And I daresay your wife would like you home for the celebration.”

MONDAY, 11 NOVEMBER 1918

The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Zivon drew in a long breath as he stepped out of the Old Building, knowing that was a refrain that he’d see plastered in every newspaper headline come tomorrow—some even this evening.

Finally, at long last, peace. The guns would be silent. The trenches left behind.

At least in Europe. According to both the official reports and Evgeni’s letters, the White and Red Armies were still clashing. His brother never said anything about his hopes—the hopes so opposed to Zivon’s—and just related the facts.

Russia remained in upheaval. The Bolsheviks’ power didn’t appear to be waning.