On the jeep ride to Tempsford, headlights cutting eerily through the damp fog and thick darkness, Major Renault recited in his typical, terse style the litany of instructions already inexpungable in her mind, more a sign of his nerves than hers. Prior to meeting the others in ten days’ time, she was to check out the memorized list of safe houses and establishments deemed secure to make sure they were still viable. And of course she was to begin preparing the wall for her mural. The major wanted her presence noted in the neighborhood before the others arrived. Whatever happened, she was not to be captured, he warned her once again. Despite her impressive performance during training, nobody, but nobody, held out under a Gestapo interrogation. She was the head of the dragonfly, the others her wings. In time she would undoubtedly learn from her teammates’ intel where they lived and worked—in other words, the nature of their missions. She alone would possess the information the Gestapo would be after to throw a net around the lot.

“At the first sign of trouble, get out of there,” he’d said. “That’s an order. You know where to go, what to do. And remember to leave that V in the dog’s ear.”

“I won’t forget,” Bridgette said, but at the takeoff point, before she boarded, he’d seemed incapable of further words and simply pulled her into a tight embrace that lasted long enough for her to hear the rapid thump of his heart.

“Be safe,” he’d rasped as he let her go, this time the huskiness in his voice not due to his predawn pack of cigarettes.

It was ludicrous when she thought about it, feeling so attached to four people whose real names she didn’t even know and thinking of a bossy, chain-smoking, corn husk of an old soldier with tobacco- and coffee-stained teeth as a father figure, but there it was. It was all a new feeling for her. She’d found that she wasn’t such a love ’em and leave ’em sort of person after all, but then these were the first people she’d ever met who she wanted to remain in her life always.

The major had turned them down last night when Liverwort, nothing if not audacious, a little potted, had led the march to his room and rapped on the door.

He’d opened it smelling of tobacco. “Yes?” he inquired mildly.