But it was altogether different for her. Mama never tried to be involved in Daddy’s work. But she maintained that her daughters’ business was very much under her jurisdiction.

Lily drew in a deep breath and turned toward the entrance. “Well, I had better get to it. I daren’t be late again today.”

Daddy chuckled and walked with her to the door. “If you want to drive home together, send a note up. Though I do need to stop at the bank this afternoon.”

Lily took care not to react. She avoided the bank whenever she could. Stepping inside it inevitably reminded her of Johanna. Johanna, whose father had been the bank manager. Johanna, whose family had been friends with the Blackwells since they moved to the neighborhood when Lily was five. Johanna, whose family had fled home to Germany two days before war was declared.

Johanna, whom Lily had been so sure was loyal to England . . . up until she’d been proven wrong.

She smiled at the guard who held the door open for her and said over her shoulder to Daddy, “With a bit of luck, this won’t take that long and I’ll be able to leave before you. But if not, I’ll certainly let you know.”

Her father nodded. “I’ll wait to hear from you. Let me know if you have need of anything, dearest.”

“I will.” Though in general, Admiral Hall saw to it that she had absolutely anything she needed. In addition to her magnificent retouching desk, her darkroom at the OB also had drying racks, solutions, gels, frames, scalpels, brushes, paints, ink, an electric fan, and even a heater to speed up the drying process when they were really pressed for time.

Her hand rested on her camera. “Have a good day, Daddy.”

He smiled, but the shadows never left his eyes these days. Not fully. “I’ll have a good day once we’ve routed the Boche for good.” He hurried up the stairs.

She watched him for a moment. The war had aged him. Four years ago, his hair had still been a rich brown, his face scarcely lined, his form robust. These days, there was more salt than pepper in his hair, he looked older than his fifty-two years, and his tall frame had gone gaunt.

Perhaps some of it could be blamed on the illness within the first six months of the war that had landed him behind a desk instead of on his ship. But she suspected it was more because of the war itself, and the responsibilities that came with that desk.