Susan folded the note and placed it inside her coat. Gathering her strength, she left the loft.

The past few nights, the battles in the skies had been fierce. Antiaircraft guns boomed. The earth quaked. China fell from shelves. And now the sheep pasture was speckled with shrapnel, like ugly black hailstones. As she walked across the yard, she noticed a dull shimmer among the bits of shrapnel. She stopped. A brass bullet casing, the length of a stick of gum. She imagined that the casing came from either an RAF fighter or a Luftwaffe bomber. She picked it up. The cold metal made her skin crawl. Rather than check for markings, she threw it toward the forest; it landed several yards short of a bordering beech tree.

“I hate war!” she shouted.

A rustle came from the RAF tent still erected in the yard. A soldier poked out his head.

Susan glared at him. “You heard me.”

The soldier, like a startled gopher, ducked his head back inside.

As she approached the cottage door, she heard a wheeze. Hacking. A wet cough. She glanced up at her bedroom window, which was now left partway open for Duchess. A gust of frigid wind caused the blackout curtain to sway.

I had a little bird, its name was Enza. I opened the window, and in flew Enza.

She shivered. Pulling her coat around her body, she stepped inside.

CHAPTER 41 - EPPING, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 41

EPPING, ENGLAND

Susan entered the cottage to a wave of deep rasping coughs. The air was dank from steaming pots that had been left on the stove to loosen Bertie’s congestion. Mist covered the windows. Upholstery had turned damp. The first floor of the cottage, it seemed, had been turned into a croup tent. She hung up her coat and went to Bertie, slumped in his chair under layers of wool blankets.

“You’re up early,” Bertie said, opening his eyes.

Susan nodded, noticing the hoarseness in his voice. “A military lorry will be here in an hour.”

He coughed and spat into a tattered piece of fabric. “I’m afraid I’ve soiled all our handkerchiefs.”

She touched his arm. “That’s why we have them.”

Bertie folded his handkerchief and leaned back.

“How are you feeling?”

He struggled to clear phlegm from his throat.

Susan picked up his cup, half filled with tepid tea, from the side table and raised it to his lips.

He sipped. Winced. Swallowed.

She set down the cup. “Something to eat?”

He shook his head.

“Eucalyptus oil?”

He pressed his handkerchief over his mouth to muffle a cough, then lowered his hand. “We need to talk.”

“You need to rest.”

He forced himself to sit up. Blankets slumped to his lap. “Pigeons ready?”

“Yes.” She stared at him. Lacking the energy to shave, he had allowed white whiskers to sprout on his face. Dark bags sagged under his eyes, and his breath was sour from the infection in his lungs.