“You just described a quarter of the men who work here,” Sophie snapped. “If Allied intelligence has resorted to using blond hair and blue eyes to identify Germans, we’ll all be dead or speaking this language within a year.”

He didn’t seem fazed. “How long have you worked at Bletchley Park?”

“A year and a half. Maybe a little more.”

“And what do you do in Hut Three, Sophie?”

“Work.” She didn’t elaborate, nor did she like the casual use of her first name. This man was not her friend.

“For whom?”

Sophie knew she should be terrified at the implications of that question but fear took a backseat to the fury that stirred. She let that fury strengthen. “State your accusation plainly.”

“To the point. I like that.”

“Then get to yours.” If this man was going to accuse her of using her position at Bletchley to assist the Nazis, or spying, or sabotaging—

“Do you like what you do here, Sophie?” Her adversary abruptly switched back to French.

“What?” She had steeled herself for a much different question.

“Answer me in French.”

Sophie blinked, thoroughly lost.

“You’ve expressed a desire to your supervisor more than once to do more to help the war effort,” the man continued. “I’d like to know what you meant.”

“I don’t know, exactly. Just…more.”

“Mmm,” he mused, as if he had expected that answer. He tapped his fingers along the edge of the paper in his hand. “Your linguistic talents have identified you as a person of interest to a number of people in London.”

“Who?”

“People.”

Sophie tipped her head. “This conversation is some sort of test, isn’t it?”

“They said you were intuitive.”

“They?”

“Also that you were clever with numbers, organized, punctual, polite, but socially reticent.” He ignored her question. “‘Standoffish’ might have been used.”

“I didn’t come to Bletchley for the taverns and ale. I came to fight the only way I know how.”

He didn’t seem offended at her tone. “You applied to Bletchley as Sophie Kowalski.”

“Yes.”

The brown-haired man plucked a leaf from the bush nearest him and twirled it between his fingers. “Kowalski is a Polish name, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“You were married.”

“Yes.”

“Ah. So you are a widow. I wasn’t entirely sure.”

She clenched her fist, Piotr’s ring cutting hard into her finger, but kept her face a mask of impassivity. He had tricked her into admitting something that she had told no one here.

“Why not apply as Sophie Seymour?”

Sophie stared at him in shock.

“Ah.” He chuckled. “You didn’t expect me to know your name.”

She shrugged, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

“Someone recognized you here,” he continued, sounding amused. “As Sophie Seymour. Late of Warsaw, Poland.”