Silence fell. Crystalline, perfect, and soon gone as the pneumatic tubes delivered another passel of papers with a thunk. Pulling in a long breath, Margot took a moment to wish they’d finished the codebreaking an hour earlier. She would have let herself into Knox’s chambers and made use of the bath he’d had installed. The very thought of gallons of warm water surrounding her was enough to make her shoulders sag. The flat she shared with her mother had a private bath, but the room was always frigid, and there was never sufficient hot water.

She fished the papers out of the tube and sent the holder back down to the basement, where a team was constantly at work typing up the intercepted telegrams from Germany and sending them wherever in the intelligence department they needed to go. A glance at the latest collection told her that if she sat down to get started on it, she’d still be at it come noon.

Tossing them instead onto another desk, Margot stood, stretching as she did so, and wandered to the window. She was more accustomed to this view than any other in London—the familiar rooflines of Whitehall’s buildings, the street that led to Charing Cross Hospital with its banner demanding Silence for the Wounded. A twenty-minute walk would lead her to her flat, and another twenty would take her to where her brother Lukas lived with his wife and their little daughter. A short tube ride and she’d be in Hammersmith, where said wife’s extended family always welcomed her, any time of day or night.

She leaned into the window frame and touched the tips of her fingers to the glass, still cool from the night. Sometimes it was hard to remember that this hadn’t always been her world. Even harder to contemplate was that it wouldn’t always be her world.

Not once this war was over. The war she spent her entire focus on trying to end.

She let her fingers fall from the glass. It had to end. The Central Powers must be stopped. And with the United States now fighting on the side of the Allies, with their fresh soldiers and virtually limitless resources, surely it would happen soon. The war would be over. And then . . .

And then . . .

What? Maman would want to go back to Belgium. The longer they were here, the more wistful she became about the house in Brussels that was no doubt currently occupied by some faceless German officer. Lukas and Willa had already decided to split their time between London, Brussels, and whatever cities wanted to host the two renowned violinists on tour.