She’d seen Piotr yesterday. Or maybe it was the day before. It was difficult to keep track of time now. He’d been standing by her feet, in his uniform, looking rather dismayed at whatever it was that the Gestapo were doing to her. Sophie had focused on him to distract herself from the pain that had become her constant companion. She’d tried to keep him in focus long enough to see his face but he’d wavered, and Sophie had closed her eyes. When she’d awoken again, the Gestapo were gone and so was Piotr.

She hoped he was telling her instructors that they ought to be impressed, she thought disjointedly. They would, undoubtably, call her unnatural again but this time it would be with approval. She hadn’t told the Nazi roaches anything other than what they thought they already knew. Lipsticks and powder and a chance to kill Göring when he returned. Miss Atkins would most definitely approve.

Sophie sighed. She would be sad, Miss Atkins would, when Sophie didn’t come back. And so would Will, though he would read her letter and understand. And Estelle would complete what Sophie couldn’t. Because, like Will, Estelle was a survivor.

A deafening bang reverberated, and an agonizing light flooded the room. Sophie groaned and squeezed her eyes shut but it didn’t seem to help the new pain that sparked deep in her head.

“Sophie.” Her name, called as if someone was yelling through a window.

“Sophie.” Again her name, and this time it was accompanied by a blow to the head. A faint buzzing started in her ears.

Sophie opened her eyes. They were back, the roaches in grey and black, hovering above her. Back with their instruments and hammers and tools and electrical devices that hummed, determined to extract the secrets caught inside her head.

They would never have them. They had to know this by now. This made her happy.

“Sophie.” A new voice from the corner of the room caught her attention. This was a voice she recognized.

“Piotr,” she murmured, relief washing through her like a warm bath. She wasn’t alone here anymore. This time he wasn’t in his uniform. He was wearing the heavy sweater he’d been wearing that last morning. She could see his face clearly, and this time, he didn’t look troubled. He looked the way he had when he had helped her to her feet the morning she’d crashed her bicycle.

“Did you make it count?” Piotr asked her.

“Yes,” Sophie whispered.

“What did she say?” someone barked loudly in German. She ignored them.

“I knew you would.” Her husband smiled at her. “Don’t be afraid. You’re almost home.”