Susan raised her head and looked at him. The candlelight flickered over his gray whiskers.

“You never gave up. You kept the egg warm and rotated it like clockwork for weeks. Even after Duchess hatched, you fed her homemade pigeon milk until she could join the squabs.” He gave a slight smile. “It wasn’t a miracle. You believed. And made it happen.”

She stood and went to his chair.

“Have faith.” He took her hand and squeezed.

Susan nodded, then went to the icebox to fetch another cold towel. She appreciated her grandfather’s words and, even more, his continuous efforts to fill the void of a missing father and mother. But deep down, she knew something was wrong.

As night approached, Bertie fell asleep in his chair, not making the effort to climb the stairs with his aching knees. His head slowly bobbed with the rhythm of his snores.

Susan quietly put on her coat, slipped outside, and took a seat on the porch. In the distance, a red glow of fires surrounded London as dozens of searchlights scanned the sky for Luftwaffe. A mix of desperation and guilt filled her soul. Why did I let him leave? Why did I let her out of my sight? She struggled to convince herself that Ollie would return. A pang of loneliness tugged at her heart. She rubbed her hand over the porch step, where Ollie had sat with her the night before, and she began to fear that she might have lost the love of her life. She wiped water from her eyes and prayed that Ollie would drive up the lane and Duchess would flutter from the birches. But by morning, neither had come.

CHAPTER 25 - EPPING, ENGLAND

CHAPTER 25

EPPING, ENGLAND

The predawn chirping of sparrows caused Susan to raise her head from her lap. She rubbed her eyes and saw the McCrearys’ lorry parked in front of the lofts, sending a jolt through her body. Ollie. Duchess. She stood, her joints stiff from the cold, and blew warm air over her fingers. How long did I sleep? A few minutes? An hour?

The farm was eerily calm, the sky clear of searchlights and Luftwaffe. But the echoes of war remained etched into her consciousness like the grooves of a phonograph record. A pang in her eardrums. A vibration under her feet. A looming sense of doom. She wondered if she would spend her life, whatever might remain of it, reliving memories of exploding bombs.