He reached his hand and lightly squeezed her fingers.

Susan forced a smile.

He released her hand, then adjusted his blankets. “You’re making a difference in this war, Susan. Despite the losses, our pigeons are gathering intelligence on Hitler’s military.”

She thought of the empty cubbies, the hundreds of missing pigeons. “We need more to train.”

“We won’t receive more.” He blew his nose but produced nothing but a thick gurgle.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve already spoken to Jonathan Wallace of the National Pigeon Service.”

“That’s not fair,” Susan said. “Just because you’re feeling poorly doesn’t mean that we can’t continue with Source Columba. I’ll talk to Mr. Wallace, tell him that I’m perfectly capable of taking on the extra work until you recover.” She stepped to the telephone.

“It’s not my condition, my dear.” He labored to inhale. “It’s our location.”

Susan stopped. She turned and looked at him.

“Our farm is near an RAF airfield, a target for the Luftwaffe.” He coughed, then picked up his cup and drank. “We’re also directly under their bloody flight path to bomb London. It’s not safe.”

“What can we do?” she asked.

“The National Pigeon Service is setting up training farms in Northampton, away from the bombings.” He cleared his throat. “Jonathan is saving a position for you.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Britain needs you.” He paused, then tucked his dirty handkerchief under his blanket, as if to hide the evidence of his worsening condition. “We’ll soon have no pigeons. Unless you go to Northampton, you’ll no longer be part of Source Columba.”

She stepped to his chair. “I won’t leave you.”

“I’ll join you later, my dear.” He glanced at the bottle of sulfa pills on the side table. “The McCrearys can check in on me until I’ve recovered.”

“Nonsense.” Susan crossed her arms. Mrs. McCreary was a sweet woman who would no doubt go out of her way to care for Bertie. But her husband, a meek man who spent much of the day hiding in his root cellar, would be of little, if any, help. Regardless, she’d never leave Bertie. Ever. Rather than argue, she leaned over him and retrieved his cup. “We’ll talk of this later.”

In the kitchen, she prepared tea. As the leaves steeped, she heard him cough, struggling to expel mucus from his lungs. A sudden sense of helplessness washed over her. She wanted to cry. Give up. Instead, she bit her lip and buried her tears. Be an egg.

As she carried his tea into the living room, a flutter came from upstairs. She placed the cup on Bertie’s side table, spilling tea on the floor. She turned to see Duchess swoop down the stairs and land on the sofa.

Susan rushed to Duchess and swept her into her arms. Cold feathers pressed against her skin.