Drake couldn’t have stopped his grin had he wanted to. “I believe you saw her at her finest today, Abuelo. She is without equal. Brave. Brilliant. She views the world as no one else.”

“Yes, this I saw for myself. But will she make a good wife to you? Give you strong children to carry on your name?”

The smile faltered a bit. “She . . . is a bit unconventional in that regard. She has dreams. Dreams she’s afraid she’ll have to forsake if she chooses to marry and have children.”

“Nonsense.” As if that single word was all the answer that was needed, Abuelo waved a hand. “Unconventional may be just what this world needs to recover from the tragedy that has beset it. And dreams . . . dreams are only worth pursuing when we have the right person by our side, sí? And the right person is the one who encourages. Who chases the dream along with you. As your mother and your father did for each other.” Abuelo lowered his hand to the desk with a decisive thud. “You will convince her of this. You will take life as it comes, as God wills. And you will be happy together.”

Drake’s smile grew again. He wasn’t sure if it was a prophecy or a command, but either way, he was happy to obey.

Epilogue

Margot held the umbrella aloft and ran more than she walked toward her flat. There was snow mixed in with the rain, proving that February had some teeth to it. And after another night shift, she was more than looking forward to a hot cup of tea, her clanking radiator, and maybe a not-warm-enough bath before she went to bed. Later, she’d write to Drake. And perhaps make another trip to the Tower of London to visit Dieter. He never said much—and his health didn’t seem to be improving.

But she would visit anyway. She had to think that somewhere in Germany, there was a mother who would be glad of it. Glad to know her son wasn’t altogether alone in enemy territory. And in her mind, Maman smiled down on her for it.

She darted into her building while the older gent from 4C held the door open for her on his way out, thanking him with a smile as she lowered her brolly.

“There’s a parcel at your door, Margot,” he said. “Too big for your box, I suppose. Delivered yesterday afternoon—I’ve kept an eye on it for you.”

“Good of you, Mr. Parsons. Thank you.” She gathered the post from her box and jogged up the stairs as she flipped through it. A bill. A postcard from the Cotswolds, where Dot and Holmes had gone for their honeymoon, courtesy of the Duchess of Stafford. And a letter in a script that made her heart race more than the stairs accounted for.