Bertie stopped. “The bloody RAF. Bollocks. How are we to win the war with such incompetence? If they hadn’t placed Duchess on a plane, Ollie would be with us right now.”

Bertie’s words stung Susan. A wave of guilt followed. “I should have kept Duchess with me.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” He reached and held her hand. “Our military will get their intelligence. But they will not see what is meant for you.”

Susan watched Bertie carefully rewrite the message, much shorter than the one she had deciphered, and finished by signing, Flight Lieutenant Clyde Boar, RAF.

“Grandfather!”

Bertie placed his pencil on the table. “Our Oliver from Maine has had enough trouble with the RAF. Being viewed as a stowaway could create trouble for him when he returns.” He clasped her hands. “And he will return, my dear.”

Susan squeezed his fingers.

“Trust me,” he said.

“Very well.”

Bertie rolled up his note, slid it into the canister, and screwed on the top. “Let’s wake the soldiers.”

Susan followed Bertie outside and almost ran into him when he suddenly stopped.

“God help us,” he said.

His words sent shivers up her spine. She looked toward the London skyline. In the ashen haze of daybreak, the fires gave the appearance of a monstrous sun rising over the city.

She lowered her head, regretting that she had chosen to look up, and helped Bertie down the porch steps. At this hour, the world was at its worst. After waves of sirens, whistles, and explosions, the sudden silence was unnerving. Even the birds, stunned by the bombardment, had delayed their chirping. She squeezed her grandfather’s arm and pressed forward.

As they approached the tent, a soldier stepped outside and zipped up his jacket.

“We have something for you,” Bertie said.

The soldier blew on his hands, then rubbed them together.

Bertie handed him the canister. “A pigeon returned to our cottage.”

The soldier glanced to the fires in London, then turned his attention to Bertie. “Why didn’t it return to the lofts?”

Bertie shrugged.

“Where’s the pigeon?” the soldier asked.

Susan stepped forward and showed him Duchess. The pigeon tucked its head under its wing.

“If another bird returns to the house, bring it directly to us,” the soldier said. “Understood?”

Bertie and Susan nodded.

The soldier slipped the canister inside his jacket and returned to the tent.

Susan cradled Duchess and walked with Bertie toward the lofts. “Are you sure we did the right thing?”

“Absolutely, my dear.” He stroked Duchess’s head with a finger. “She must be hungry. Perhaps you could feed the pigeons early. I’m sure the others will be happy to see her.”

Susan nodded and opened the loft door. The squeak of the hinge caused the pigeons to flutter from their cubbies. She gently tossed Duchess toward her favorite perch, a beam above the grain barrel.