Lily didn’t need to look to know what it would be. Not given that particular frown on Mama’s face. “More propaganda.” She said it as though it were a curse word—odd, since Daddy could say the same word with fondness. Lily edged back another step.

Ivy put the magazine down. “I think it’s rather brave of those artists to go to the front and try to find something beautiful in a war so utterly wretched.”

“No, Ivy.” Mama turned back to her canvas, leaning close to paint a highlight onto the beautiful young woman she was bringing to life with her paints—the one fashioned to look like the beautiful young woman sitting on the couch for her now, decked out in Grecian robes that would have been comical in any other house. “What it is, is dishonest. And disgraceful. The Crown has made a mockery of both the war effort and art by asking artists to produce work like that.”

Lily clenched her teeth and pivoted on her heel before the all-too-familiar argument could really unwind. It was one of her mother’s favorite topics these days, and the threads of her arguments never ceased to tangle Lily up.

“Lilian.”

Double blast. There was never any escape from these snarls. She paused, hand over her pocket, but didn’t fully turn again. “Yes, Mama?”

“I see you have your camera with you. Enjoy the day, of course, but do keep an eye on the time, my love. I mean it.”

Ivy chuckled and leaned back on the chaise as her painted counterpart was doing. “Now, Mama. She’s only been late for dinner two of the last six times we had guests.”

Lily stuck out her tongue at her sister, earning a fuller laugh, and then rushed away with a final farewell before her mother could come up with anything else to detain her. It wasn’t as though she was habitually late in general. But it was difficult to motivate herself to get home in time for yet another tiresome dinner party populated by the most boring young men left in London.

She let herself out the door and hurried down the front steps, aiming her feet south toward St. James’ Park, through which she would walk to get to Whitehall. First, though, she paused to pull off the kerchief and stuff it into her handbag. That thing was the worst part about being in the Voluntary Aid Detachment and serving at the hospital.

A motorcar puttered somewhere behind her. A few well-dressed women in an open carriage clopped toward her. Lily drew a long breath of spring air into her lungs and slid her eyes closed for a second. Two. Just enough to push it all down yet again. To call up the reasons she did what she did.