She took the book, wiping a layer of dust from a companion copy of her father’s artillery codebook. She glanced at the note. Garbled codes. It was if she were eight years old, preparing to decipher one of Bertie’s playful messages, which had sent her rummaging through the cottage in search of a hidden piece of caramel. But this wasn’t a game. And she was no longer a child. Besides her and Bertie, there was only one other person who had seen her father’s codebook. Deep down, she knew something dreadful was on that piece of paper.

They sat at the kitchen table. Duchess pecked at a piece of bread crust, then dipped her beak into a teacup filled with water. Susan shuddered as she opened the codebook.

Bertie leaned over her shoulder. “It’s all right, my dear.”

Susan flipped pages and scribbled onto the stationery. Barely through the first sentence, she stopped and reread the words. Her heart pounded. She dropped the pencil.

“What is it?” Bertie said.

“It’s from him.”

“Who?”

“Ollie.”

Bertie clasped the table. “Jesus wept!”

Susan picked up the pencil and pressed it to the paper. The tip snapped. She continued writing with the broken piece of lead rather than take time to sharpen it. As she continued to decipher codes, her brief sense of relief turned to despair. Her hands shook as she examined the message. “It can’t be,” she said.

“What’s it say?” Bertie asked.

Susan closed the codebook. She took a moment to gather her courage, then read the message to her grandfather.

Susan looked up to see her pigeon waddle across the table. She felt her grandfather place his arm over her shoulder. She wiped her eyes and continued reading.

Her hands trembled. She swallowed, preparing herself to read further.

A warm drop rolled down Susan’s cheek. She made no effort to wipe it away.

“He’s alive, my dear.”

Duchess waddled to Susan.

“Can he make it back?” She caressed Duchess and sniffed back tears.

“He bloody well made it to France. He’ll bloody well make it home.” Bertie stood and peeked behind the blackout curtains. “Luftwaffe is gone. Go to the lofts and retrieve some paper from the dropping cages.”

Susan looked at him.

“Quickly, before the soldiers wake.”

Susan put on her wool winter coat, covering all but the lower fringes of her nightgown, and threw on a pair of wellies. She crept to a loft and collected a piece of paper from an unused cage. Returning inside, she saw Bertie searching through a cabinet to retrieve a pencil sharpener.

She handed him the paper.

Bertie placed the paper on the table and twisted the pencil into the sharpener. Woodchips and lead dust coated the table.

“What are you going to do?”

“Rewrite the message.” He blew on the pencil tip and pressed it to the paper.

“We must turn this over to the RAF,” Susan said.