Lily slid her drawing into her portfolio. “I can imagine a situation where your art could be used to directly help, though. What if Admiral Hall came to you and said he wanted to convince the German High Command that we were trying to achieve a particular aim here at home and needed false propaganda posters to supposedly leak to them? Wouldn’t that be different?”

Her mother looked amused. “Perhaps you ought to try to find a way to show God to the lads in the trenches, Lily. Your imagination is apparently better than mine. I cannot fathom Blinker ever coming to me with such a plan.”

“But if he did?”

Mama laughed, but it wasn’t her usual bright, full-hearted one. Just a dry echo blowing in the wind. “I don’t know. Then I suppose I’d have to wrestle with whether using the gift God has given me in order to lie is excusable if it’s lying to one’s enemies instead of one’s friends. From all I know of my Lord, He does not make such distinctions. And yet . . .” she said, snapping the case of paints closed, “it isn’t a question your father wrestles with at all, and he is a man of solid faith.” She shrugged, not looking exactly happy with the disparity.

Perhaps Lily’s answering sigh gave away more of her own torment than she intended.

Mama reached over to cup her cheek. “I know it bothers you, this disagreement your father and I have over this. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so vocal about my opinions.”

Lily shook her head. What else could she do? And conjured up a smile. “I think Ivy finds it amusing.”

“You don’t, though. I suppose because you’re an artist too, so the questions hit closer to home.”

Closer than she knew. She looked at the watercolor her mother had created. Two hours of her time, nothing she ever meant to sell, and yet it stole Lily’s breath. The way she used color was simply astounding. Lily herself hadn’t even noticed that tinge of blue in the sidewalk. The hint of yellow in the sky. Not until Mama put it to paper. “I’m not an artist like you.”

“Nor am I one like you.” Her mother dabbed at the paper, testing its dryness, and nodded. “Photography can do what a painting can’t, in some ways. Because people think it above denial, they are willing to accept the story it tells with far more faith.” She handed Lily the painting, a spark of teasing in her eyes. “I don’t envy you having to wrestle with the questions of how God would have you use that power.”

“Thanks for that cheery thought.” She slid Mama’s work into the portfolio and then turned to dismantle her easel as her mother did the same with hers.