Gloom pulled at her finely modeled features. Early on, Bridgette would have been surprised at the depth of Liverwort’s sadness at parting. Liverwort was not a girl who wore her emotions like face pancake, but as they’d become friends, Bridgette had discovered that warm and intense feelings were going on behind that cool exterior. In their sleepless late-night sessions, they had gone against the rules and revealed their motives in signing on with the OSS. Bridgette told Liverwort about the loss of her grandmother, her only living relative, who had been tortured by the Germans, and Liverwort shared with her that she had joined the agency to find her fiancé, who had been shot down close to Paris. No parachute had been seen, but she was convinced that he could still be alive and hiding out somewhere in the city or the French countryside. Bridgette had gone cold at the danger her friend was letting herself in for, but she knew better than to try talking her out of it. Instead, she’d offered gently, “Would that not be like looking for the proverbial needle in a field of haystacks?”

Liverwort’s lovely, gray-green eyes had filled with determination. “Yes, but I must try,” she’d said.

As for “the boys,” as they called the rest of the team, neither had discovered a clue to explain their personal motives for being here. From careful observation, though, Bridgette had been able to pick up some hints of their interests and backgrounds. Apparently, Limpet liked fishing—fly-fishing, specifically. Bridgette overheard him discussing the sport with one of the staff members at Milton Hall, and several times she had seen him about the estate casting out a line with practiced ease. A few days ago, the major had asked him if he’d made sure to pack his “special gear,” which Bridgette felt certain referred to the rod and reel. Somehow Limpet’s angling expertise figured into his assignment. Thereafter, she and Liverwort referred to Limpet as “the fisherman.”