But Margot? She drew in a long breath and held it while her mind churned out a prayer. Nine, eighteen, twenty-seven, thirty-six, forty-five, fifty-four . . . What would be left for her in Belgium? There was her childhood friend Claudette—assuming they would even still like each other, after living such different lives since the De Wildes sought refuge in England. Would a university welcome her there? As a student—or as a professor, eventually? Or would the world expect her to be a typical girl, too busy thinking about needlepoint and knitting and finding a husband to care about academic degrees?

The numbers came to a screeching halt in her head, as they always did when she contemplated a future like that. No, domestic “bliss” would be torture. She’d be a dunce of a housewife. What she needed was something intellectually stimulating with which to fill her days after the war was over. Something in academia, most likely. In mathematics.

Here. In London, if they would let her stay after the war was over. Here, where she’d first tasted the freedom of being who she was.

Muffled voices came from the hallway. One male, one female. Margot tilted her head to better hear them. Lady Hambro and DID? No, it wasn’t Hall’s voice that said, “Just knock, Dot.”

Nor, for that matter, was the head of the secretaries called Dot. And she certainly never sounded as uncertain as the voice that replied, “But the sign says to ring the bell. . . .”

Margot’s lips twitched up. Yes, each and every door along this hallway had a sign that said NO ADMITTANCE. RING BELL. But not a single door actually had a bell. One of their little jokes, meant to dissuade anyone who didn’t belong from interrupting them.

But it was probably Hall’s appointment. Margot strode to the door and pulled it open, noting that it made the girl jump. The man did nothing but turn to look at her.

Siblings, she’d bet. They shared rich brown hair and striking silver-blue eyes ringed by dark lashes. The man, probably mid-twenties, had a knot on his nose that all but shouted that he’d exchanged a few fisticuffs in his day. He wore a naval uniform. The girl, probably around nineteen, took a step back and cast her eyes down at the floor.

Given that she’d been up for twenty-four hours, the smile Margot managed to summon was small. “Are you here to see DID and Lady Hambro?”

The girl seemed to be trying to vanish into the polished wood floor. Her brother cleared his throat and nudged her forward. “Yes, she is. Miss Dorothea Elton. Applying for the position of secretary.”