“Here.” Her brother—who at least didn’t still look ready to finish what Jaeger’s bullet had started—handed her a rectangular gift that shouted book in its dimension. “I had Barclay scouring the bookshops for months to find this.”

He had no idea who Barclay might be, but Willa, who sat on the end of the couch closest to him, leaned over to say, “My older brother. He has a . . . knack, let’s call it, for finding whatever anyone might need. Hence why Admiral Hall has hired him to do just that.”

Drake produced a smile for her, though she turned back to face Margot before she really saw it.

Margot had gotten the paper off the book and laughed when its title was revealed.

Dot scooted forward on her chair. “What is it? Something about mathematics, no doubt.”

“Yes.” Grinning in a way that nearly stopped his heart, she held up the book.

“No.” Her brother sent her a mock scowl.

Dot lifted a brow. “Poetry?”

Margot nodded. “Mathematics. Meter and rhythm and rhyming patterns. All mathematics.”

“Hardly.” Lukas’s eyes were definitely twinkling over his frown. “Music. Poetry is but music without the instruments.”

Willa rolled her eyes and leaned back comfortably against the couch. “Spare us the familiar debate, you two. And do explain why you had my brother hunting for this particular book of poetry, luv.”

“Émile Verhaeren is one of Belgium’s most beloved poets.” His expression softened into a smile. One flavored, it looked to Drake, with honeyed memories. “Les Heures Claires was the book we first began our music-or-mathematics debate over, when Margot was . . . what? Nine?”

Drake’s throat went tight. Les Heures Claires.

“Eight.” She ran a hand over the cloth binding. Her amusement shifted into longing. “It burned along with all our other books. In Louvain.”

Dot shot a look at Drake. “Isn’t this the one you’re reading now?”

All eyes flew to him, and he nodded. “I found a copy in my favorite bookshop in Bilbao. Had it with me when I was . . .” He motioned to his side.

Lukas turned wide eyes on him. “Parlez-vous français?”

Nodding, Drake said, “Oui. In addition to Spanish and Italian and Latin. Spanish is, of course, my best language after English, but French is a close third.”

“I’ve always been a dunce at languages.” Dot chuckled at herself and cast a look at Red, who’d pulled over a chair from the dining table. “You?”

“I always reckoned English enough.”

Drake looked between his sister and their old friend. Measuring. Gauging. Her eyes lit when she looked at Redvers Holmes in a way he hadn’t seen them do since Nelson signed up. And now that he paused to think of it, her smiles had been rather more abundant than usual when talking with him too.

He let out a slow breath. Finding the bloke a good position just got a bit more imperative.