Silver put on a record. It was a popular song from five or so years ago—about a third of Mrs. Warner’s records were banned in Germany. “Ah, American jazz!” Sergeant Lind exclaimed, tugging Ignacy by the hand. “Cab Calloway playing ‘Moonglow’! I couldn’t stay neutral when dance music is at stake. Just by listening to it you’re undermining Hitler. Come along, I know you’re a good dancer.”

Holding Ignacy’s hand, she coaxed him into a small space between tables, raised her other hand so he could put his arm around her waist, and let him lead. They glided over the flagstone floor in a seamless fox-trot. Ignacy was a good dancer, formal and light-footed. She picked the right bloke to show off with.

When the record ended, Ignacy thanked her in French. They chattered to each other in French for a minute, nothing of any substance—Ignacy knew I was listening, and thanks to my French grandmother my French is as good as my English. No doubt Mrs. Warner knew what was going on, too. The rest of Madeira and Pimms flew into a competition over who would get the next dance, clearing floor space and arguing over records.

“I love a good hop!” exclaimed Phyllis, jumping to her feet. “I’m in!”

She held out a hand, and Harry Morrow grabbed it first. Silver went for tall Ellen.

Louisa looked directly at me.

She gave a quick, bright-eyed nod, pushed back her chair, and stood up.

In two steps I was by her side with my hand out.

“Like to dance, Louisa?”

Louisa:

I knew I only had about three minutes.

He was taller than me, but he didn’t tower over me like the others. His eyes were the clear green-yellow-brown of sunlight through palm fronds, and his hands holding mine were cool and fine-boned. He bent his head and we were face-to-face, closer than I’d ever been to any boy. I’d never even danced with a boy before—at school there were only girls, and we danced with each other.

Silver set the needle on the record. It was another Cab Calloway tune, “Jitterbug,” fast and lighthearted. Harry and Phyllis were laughing together. I fixed a smile on my face—it was easy to smile at Jamie, but not so easy to pretend we were making small talk about jazz or Jamaica.

“We can’t use anything we learned from the coding machine anymore,” I told him. “Odysseus. He warned me.”

He didn’t miss a step.

“How?”

“Morse code. No accident.”

FALLE. ENIGMA.

“The Nazis are onto him, and they’re onto us, too, I think,” I rushed on. “Jane translated. He said ‘Trap, trap; Enigma, Enigma.’”

“Yes, I think they’ve been onto him for a while,” Jamie breathed. “Buckets of blood.”