“You should lie down.” Boar dropped the smoldering nub of paper into the ashtray.

She ignored him and retrieved a hat hanging on a hook next to her truffle bag and placed it on her head. She adjusted the brim to cover the protrusion on her temple. “The Nazis will notice a missing officer.” She buttoned her coat and opened the door. “They’ll retrace Dietrich’s steps, including his visits to requisition my truffles.”

A gust of cold air brushed Boar’s face. “Where are you going?”

“To talk with my friend.” Madeleine looked at him. “You leave tomorrow.” She stepped outside and shut the door.

He thought about stopping her. But it didn’t matter. In fact, nothing mattered anymore. Although his heart beat, his lungs held air, and his limbs worked, he was broken. Worthless. Every fiber in his body wanted to fight. But now, even if he did make it back to Britain, he’d never command a squadron. Nor would he be allowed to fight with one eye. At best, he’d be assigned to work behind a desk. Bloody hell. He pulled out his pistol and took inventory of his ammunition, including the bullets in the extra clip that was attached to his belt. Consumed with resentment, he resolved to kill as many Nazis as he could and save one bullet for himself. And perhaps another for the Yank.

An hour later, as he sat in a chair waiting for Madeleine or Ollie to return, a faint scrape on the porch caused him to raise his pistol. He listened, then crept to the window. Inching back the curtain, he peeked outside. Nothing.

Peck. Peck.

Recognizing the sound, he exhaled and opened the door. On the porch, he saw what had to be the Yank’s pigeon, considering its vibrant plume. “You look like a bloody peacock.” He shook his head. “Surprised you haven’t been shot down.”

Duchess looked up and ruffled her feathers.

Boar stepped toward the bird.

Duchess waddled away. She stretched her wings, preparing to take flight.

He stopped. Slowly, he slipped his weapon into the holster.

Duchess fluttered into the yard.

Boar ground his teeth. He paused, then turned toward the cottage and said, “Yank, your bird is back. Come and get it before it flies away.”

He went inside, leaving the door open. Pressing his back against the wall, out of view of the pigeon, he waited. Several minutes passed. As he was about to give up, he heard a flutter, then scratching. A moment later, the bird waddled inside.

Boar slammed the door. A crack shot through the cottage.

Duchess leaped and flapped her wings.