“Soldiers?” Bertie whispered.

Susan noticed the feebleness of his voice. “They packed up this afternoon.” She took a cloth and dipped it into a ceramic water basin. As she wiped his face, she recalled the soldiers loading up their tent and equipment, then driving away. They were assigned to another duty. And she wasn’t surprised. After all, there was nothing for them to do, considering the lofts were barren and a pigeon had not returned from France in over a week, including Duchess.

“She’s not coming back, is she?” Susan asked, unable to control her thought.

Bertie slid his hand from under his blanket.

She squeezed his fingers. It had been nine days since Duchess had left. And Susan knew, from years of racing pigeons with Bertie, that a pigeon, more than a day or two unaccounted for, never returned.

“Northampton,” he whispered, almost inaudible.

“I’m not leaving you,” she said. “The National Pigeon Service can wait.”

He blinked, his eyes swollen and bloodshot. “I’m not getting better.”

Susan’s skin turned cold.

“Promise me you’ll go.” He paused to catch his breath, then licked his lips, crinkled and chapped.

“First, we’re going to make you well.”

He coughed, then feebly shook his head.

Susan’s eyes watered. She caressed his arm, thin and fragile, like the branch of a willow.

Bertie took in a labored breath. “Be an egg, my dear.”

CHAPTER 50 - EPPING, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 50

EPPING, ENGLAND

Susan went to the phone and found that the lines were still dead, as they had been for the past three days. Through the curtains, the sun had set, turning the sky indigo. A fading glow of amber traced the horizon. The blackout had commenced. It was too late to venture outside, but she didn’t care. Bertie’s condition had worsened, and she decided to take matters into her own hands.

“I’m going to prepare the lorry,” she said, grabbing her coat. “We’re going to St. Margaret’s.”

Bertie cracked open his eyes. He tried to speak but produced a wheeze.

As she buttoned her coat, the sirens sounded. The horrid howl sent chills up Susan’s spine. She ran outside, not bothering to close the door. Reaching the truck, she lowered the tailgate, knowing Bertie would be too infirm to sit in the cabin.

The sirens roared. She glanced up to see searchlights crisscross the sky, then turned her attention to the truck. Her mind raced on how she’d make a bed in the back. Blankets? Cushions? Suddenly, she remembered the cots that were in the bomb shelter. As she turned, antiaircraft guns fired. She flinched and covered her ears.

Booming guns shook the ground. She looked up. Flashes lit up the sky, revealing approaching Luftwaffe bombers. The metallic grind of German engines intensified. She swallowed, then ran toward the shelter.

Shells exploded. Her eardrums pounded. She ran faster.