Bertie laughed. “You’ll know all about our mission soon enough. And you’ll learn more about flying in the next few months than in a lifetime in the cockpit of a Spitfire.”

Ollie watched the airfield disappear in the side mirror. And wondered what kind of mess he’d gotten himself into.

CHAPTER 11 - EPPING, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 11

EPPING, ENGLAND

Susan poured grain into the feeding tray, then rapped on a can with a wooden spoon. Pigeons flew into the loft and pecked at their meal. Except for Duchess. The bird, her head angled to the side, stood on the landing and stared at Susan.

“All right, Duchess,” Susan said. She took a handful of grain, kneeled, and held out her palm.

Duchess fluttered to the floor, waddled to her, and cooed.

“I spoil you rotten.” Susan rubbed her finger over Duchess’s back.

Duchess stepped closer. And after receiving another stroke across her head, she began to peck.

After the grains disappeared from Susan’s palm, either swallowed by Duchess or scattered on the floor, she brushed her hands and stood. “Now, off with you.”

Duchess slowly walked to the feeding tray, stopped, and looked back at Susan.

“Go on.”

Duchess lowered her head, as if her feelings had been hurt, and wedged herself into the flock of birds.

As Susan watched Duchess, she couldn’t help thinking that the bird acted more like the Shetland sheepdog, Whitby, her grandfather owned when Susan was a child. The dog had been smart as a whip and constantly seeking affection by nuzzling her or stealing her food, usually a warm elderberry scone her grandmother had made. Bertie now joked that if he had believed in reincarnation, his old dog had come back as Duchess. It was Bertie’s way of trying to explain Duchess’s unusual behavior; he was unable to believe, even after years of training the best breeds in Britain, that a pigeon prodigy had hatched in their loft or, more precisely, in a ceramic bowl that used to hold his wife’s oatmeal.

Susan glanced one last time at Duchess, whose bright plumage stood out from that of her peers, like an Easter egg placed in a basket of ordinary brown eggs. She turned and left, the spring door slamming behind her.

As Susan took the path to another loft, she heard Bertie’s truck, the unmistakable sound of missing gears as her grandfather struggled to work the clutch. The truck came into view, and she noticed a passenger. As it neared the cottage, she saw the American’s head jerk as Bertie abruptly braked.

Susan straightened her skirt and noticed some droppings stuck to her shoe. She tilted her ankle and wiped her foot across the grass.

Bertie got out of the truck, followed by Ollie, his hand pressed against his ribs.

Susan stared, her mouth open.