He chuckled—bracing his side again as he did so. He was probably tiring after sitting so long on that hard chair. But he was an adult. If he was tired, he could move. “We’ll stick with eighteen. Solely because I’m rather fond of the number.” His gaze flicked to the others, none of whom were paying them a bit of attention. Still, he dropped his voice down as if in conspiracy when he said, “It was my number, you see. In Spain. Agent Eighteen.”

“It was . . .” Her smile froze. Her blood froze. Her very heart froze, and she could only stare at him. “You? You are Eighteen?”

Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised her. After all, given the number of agents in Spain and the fact that she knew he was a part of Thoroton’s network, she could have easily calculated the chances of it being him. Could have. But hadn’t.

She pushed away from the table, tossed her napkin into the place where her plate had been, and spun away. Perhaps it made sense, in a way. Who better for God to tell her to pray for than her new friend’s brother? Dot would have been devastated had he been killed in the field. Her last close relative, gone.

It was for Dot. Surely. That was why God had whispered Eighteen into her ear over and over again.

Her fingers curled into her palm, bit into the flesh. Though she wasn’t aware of giving them the instruction, her feet had taken her to the window. The curtains were drawn, of course—it was dark outside, and the blackout restrictions were in place. She gained nothing by standing here. She couldn’t see out. Couldn’t track the clouds. Couldn’t watch raindrops race and tumble down the glass.

But she could feel the cold radiating off it, and she could see her own window in her mind’s eye instead of this one. Those grey clouds that had broken up and chased each other across the sky on that wretched day. She could hear Lukas, now as then. Smell the tea Dot had pressed into her hand that day.

She could hear that blighted number echoing over and again in her ear. Eighteen. Eighteen. Eighteen.

Her palms stung from where her nails, always kept short and utilitarian, dug into her palms.

“What did I say?”

She jumped at the voice, so close to her side. The wrong voice. Not Lukas or Dot or the landlady. Him. Her head snapped his way, that blood that had gone cold now raging. “You.” It came out low, accusatory. As if he could help that God had brought him to her mind. “I prayed for you.”