Susan layered mounds of pillows over her head, even packed her ears with cotton from a bottle of Bertie’s aspirin, but couldn’t shut out the rumble of explosions. The bombing was relentless. The Luftwaffe seemed to have upped their arsenal, the unnerving silence between explosions less frequent. There were rumors that 30,000 bombs had dropped on London in a single night. Nazi propaganda. If true, German factories were pumping out massive amounts of weaponry. There would need to be miles of assembly lines filling shells with explosives, not to mention ruthless conditioning of Luftwaffe pilots. After all, what human, unless brainwashed, would knowingly drop bombs on women and children? She hoped the British would never resort to such atrocities, no matter how bad things got.

As Susan rolled over in bed, the plug slipped from her ear. She slid her hand under her pillow, searching for the missing cotton, and heard it.

Peck.

She shot up, dug out the remaining plug from her ear, and looked toward the window. The blackout curtain had turned her room into a sightless void, like she had been dropped into an inkwell. Her hands trembled. She waited. Nothing. Only the echo of bombs. I must be going mad, she thought, lowering her head to her pillow.

Peck.

Her heart skipped.

Peck . . . peck.

Susan threw off the covers and ran to the window.

Peck . . . peck . . . peck.

She ripped back the curtain and looked outside. A bomb flash lit up the sky, illuminating the fluorescent feathers of an unmistakable pigeon.

“Duchess!”

The bird angled its head, then tapped the glass with its beak. Peck . . . peck.

Susan struggled with the latch, chipping two fingernails, then threw open the window. Another flash lit up the sky. And there she was. Duchess. Perched on the ledge with her head tilted, appearing surprised at how long it had taken Susan to open the window.

Susan plucked Duchess from the ledge and squeezed the pigeon to her chest. “Duchess! Where have you been?”

The pigeon cooed.

“Susan,” Bertie called. “Are you all right, my dear?”

Susan sprinted from her room. Her shoulder bumped the wall. She searched for the banister. “It’s Duchess! She’s come home!”

“Good Lord!”

Susan scrambled down the stairs. As she adjusted Duchess in her hands, she noticed the Bakelite canister attached to the pigeon’s leg and almost tripped. She tucked Duchess into her arm, then descended the remaining steps using the handrail. She stepped into the blackened living room and heard the cracking of Bertie’s joints as he stood from his chair.

Bertie struck a match, lit a candle, and hobbled to Susan. A soft glow covered the room.

Duchess blinked.

“By George,” Bertie said, rubbing his eyes. “It is Duchess.”

Susan kissed her pigeon on the head.

“Where’ve you been?” Bertie stroked the pigeon with his finger.

Susan lifted Duchess, exposing the red canister.

“Bloody hell.” He looked at Susan. “Is there a message?”