The thought of Ollie desperately trying to relay a message made her head throb. She ran her hand over Duchess’s wings. “Do you think it’s possible she could carry a message back to him?”

“She’s already proven that she can, my dear.”

“But it will place her at risk.”

“Yes,” Bertie said. “But she may fly back anyway. After all, she returned to Oliver on her own.”

Susan recalled Duchess flying away, her desperate pleas to her pigeon ignored. She shook away the thought and went to the kitchen, filled a teacup with water, then placed it in front of Duchess.

The bird dipped its beak into the cup. Water droplets covered the table.

Rather than risk alerting the soldiers by going to a loft to retrieve grain, Susan scraped together a handful of stale crumbs from the bottom of a pie rack that hadn’t been used for almost a year. She sprinkled the morsels onto the table. As Duchess pecked at her food, Susan retrieved paper and a pencil, then began to scribble.

“Are you going to try and send her back?” Bertie asked.

Susan shook her head. “I can’t bear the thought of forcing her to leave. But if she flies away again, she’ll at least have a message.”

She took several minutes to code a note. Halfway through her writing, she looked up to see Bertie transposing Ollie’s message onto another piece of paper, just as he had done before. Our Oliver from Maine has had enough trouble with the RAF, she recalled her grandfather saying. Being viewed as a stowaway could create trouble for him when he returns . . . And he will return, my dear. She so needed to hear those words again. The military would get their intelligence, but they’d keep Ollie out of the picture. So, just like before, Bertie signed the altered message Flight Lieutenant Clyde Boar, RAF.

Susan finished her coded note and placed it inside the canister. After Duchess had finished pecking at her crumbs, she attached the canister to the pigeon’s leg.

Duchess shook her tail feathers. She waddled, as if she were testing the weight of the package.

Bertie patted Duchess, then slouched in his chair.

Susan picked up Duchess and carried her to the window. Peeking through the curtain, she made sure that the soldiers were not outside of their tent. She glanced at Bertie, too weak to stand. “If she flies to the loft, I’ll reach her before the soldiers. And I’ll replace my note with your message.”

“You always were rather fast,” Bertie said, sliding his paper to the edge of the table.

She forced a smile and pressed Duchess to her cheek. Feathers caressed her face. “I won’t force you to go,” she whispered.

Duchess blinked.

She kissed the pigeon’s head.