Maybe she would have, had voices not been echoing down the corridor. But the last thing she wanted was the secretaries to see her talking with a smiling young man and mistake it for something inane, like flirtation. She’d be drilled by them for weeks. So she nodded and stepped away. “If you’ll excuse me. It seems everyone is arriving for the day.”

He pushed off the wall. “Aren’t you going to tell me your name before you go?”

Perhaps her smile was a bit impish. And perhaps she took a bit too much joy from saying, “No.” Perhaps she would if he actually ever asked her for it. . . . “But you’re a clever man. You’ll work it out.”

If she’d been too impish, he apparently didn’t mind. His laugh followed her down the corridor.

It took her only a moment to dart back into Room 40 and gather her things. By the time she exited again, though, the lift had opened and spilled out a veritable sea of codebreakers and secretaries, all chattering.

Margot aimed for the stairs, jogging down them with more of a bounce than she usually had after her once-weekly night shift. The energy would fade soon, but with a bit of luck she could ride it through the walk home.

Maman was just gliding through the doors, her beautiful face lighting in a smile upon spotting her. “Bonjour, ma petite.”

Margot smiled. She returned the greeting in French, let her mother enclose her in a quick embrace, and then pulled her chin out of Maman’s hand when she tried to examine her face far too closely.

“You have shadows under your eyes,” Maman said, still in French.

Margot shook her head. “I’m tired,” she answered in English. “But I am well. Do you need me to run any errands this afternoon?”

Maman shook her head too, but it looked far different than Margot’s mechanical motion would have. All smooth elegance and grace, her every movement. Even dressed in a simple cotton blouse and grey wool skirt, Sophie De Wilde looked exactly like what she was—a gentlewoman, the beauty of her day, a lady to make heads turn wherever she went. One of refinement and elegance that war shortages and a menial job couldn’t hide.

“I left a meal on the table for you. Eat it before you go to bed, ma puce.”

Margot pressed her lips against another smile. Her mother still seemed to think that she’d let herself starve if she didn’t issue that command. As if Margot were not the one to prepare half the meals—sparse as they were. “I will.” She leaned over to kiss her mother’s satiny cheek. “Have a good day. I’ll see what’s to be found in the shops this afternoon.”