“I said, it’s a wee scared. And a wee tired.” Bertie leaned forward and adjusted his blanket over his knees. “You’ve frightened her into the woods. It may be hours before she returns.”

“Blasted bird,” the soldier said. “Why didn’t it just go inside the loft?”

Susan’s face turned hot. “She was merely resting! How would you feel after hours of flapping your arms?”

The soldier cleared his throat, then spat in the grass.

“I suggest you stay in your tent until the alarm sounds,” Bertie said.

The soldier puffed his chest. “Do I have to remind you that we’re in charge?”

“No,” Bertie said. “But if you continue to behave like children chasing butterflies, that pigeon will never come home.”

The soldiers glanced at each other, then walked to their tent and slipped inside.

“Our military has clearly assigned their most incompetent to our mission,” Bertie said.

Susan scanned the forest. “Which way did she fly?”

“Here.”

She turned.

Bertie lifted the blanket on his lap to expose Duchess, tucked onto his belly.

Susan covered her mouth.

He wrapped Duchess inside the blanket. “Let’s go inside. Shall we?”

Susan helped him inside and quickly shut the blackout curtains, all the while trying to imagine how he had managed to reach Duchess. She unwrapped the blanket that hid her pigeon.

“She flew to me as the soldiers were approaching.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “I merely covered her with my blanket.”

Susan held Duchess. She caressed her wings.

The pigeon cooed.

Bertie pointed. “Where did the canister come from?”

Susan unclipped the canister and gently placed Duchess on the table. This time she didn’t need her grandfather’s prodding to inspect what was inside. She unscrewed the top and slid out the paper.

She retrieved the codebook and began deciphering the message. As she wrote, a sense of déjà vu turned her legs weak. She finished and handed the paper to Bertie.

“Don’t have my reading glasses.”

Susan paused, then read the note.

“It’s the same message,” Bertie said.

Susan shook her head. “There’s more.”

Susan slipped her hand inside her coat pocket and produced the previous note, softened like cotton from numerous readings. She placed both pieces of paper on the table.

“Good Lord,” Bertie said, rubbing the bump on his head. “She flew back to France.”

“But she’s a one-way racing pigeon,” Susan said. “She hasn’t been trained for two-way flight.”

“Pigeons aren’t supposed to hatch from breakfast bowls either.” He stroked Duchess with a finger. “But this one did.”

Susan looked at the note again, making certain her eyes were not deceiving her. “Ollie must think that his first message never reached us.”

Bertie paused and scratched his whiskers. “Our Oliver likely believes that the original canister had fallen off, and Duchess simply returned to him. He must have tried again, using a canister from another pigeon.”