Not to say that God didn’t factor it all into His plan. He would use it. But He didn’t cause it. The world caused it, their lives caused it, that inevitable probability caused it. Because He’d set a world of order into motion. A world of cause and effect. Actions and reactions.

Maman had died. But the question of why was really two different questions. Why had it happened? That was what she had been focusing on—the question that led to theories and suspicions and starting at shadows. Or—or. She could ask the other question, What was its purpose in God’s plan?

A completely different perspective. A ninety-degree shift. A question that looked to the future rather than the past, that forced her to focus not on the “this is my infirmity” of Psalm 77:10 and instead on “but I will remember the years of the right hand of the most High.”

Hall checked his pocket watch. “They ought to be here any moment. Let him see you home then, my dear. You needn’t spend another night on my couch.”

She didn’t move. Made no reply. Drake wouldn’t consent to her going to her flat alone, she knew. But Dot wouldn’t likely want her there either. He would have to take her to Lukas’s house, she supposed.

Not yet. After. After he handed her the codebook and she’d used it on the slips of yellow that now sat, still and neat, in her lap. After they knew.

At last, there was a hitch in DID’s stride and he moved to the door with purpose, obviously having spotted them through the window. He bypassed the ever-present guard and opened the door.

Margot stood, yellow slips of paper clutched in her hand. Her heart rate increased, more than the movement demanded. It was the thought of seeing him. Cause and effect. Increase in pulse, change in respiration, dilation of pupils. He would probably be able to tell just by looking at her how glad she was he was back. How much she feared letting him leave again.

Hall said something into the void left by the door, and voices answered. She couldn’t make out the words, but she knew the voice, and it ratcheted up her beats-per-minute a little more.

Then she saw him. Brown hair under his hat, silver-blue eyes, knotted nose. Drake.

She couldn’t make herself move. She wanted to, but her muscles were locked into too still, making her wonder that she’d even managed to rise. She could only stand there, grasping the papers, and watch as he smiled at the admiral, sidled around him, and then finally, finally looked at her.

He grinned, and her respiration rate shifted again. A hitch that would drop it from its usual twelve breaths a minute to eleven. And then a few short heaves that would raise it to fifteen.