“You’ve gone very white,” Josh said, putting the photo down. “Are you okay?” He touched her arm, concern evident on his face.

“I don’t think so.” She closed her eyes and opened them again. Then picked up the photograph. Turned it over. But the words were still there: Dan Hallworth and Victorine Hallworth. 1944.

“Victorine Hallworth is my mother’s name.” D’Arcy’s voice sounded as fragile as the Wood White butterfly’s wings, as if it would take off and desert her at any moment. There might be other Victorines in the world, but was there more than one Victorine Hallworth of around the same age as her mother?

“That’s a very strange coincidence.” Josh’s words came out heavily, dropping like thunderclouds into the room. “Who’s Dan Hallworth?”

“I have no idea. Well, actually, I do have some idea but it doesn’t make any sense.” She put the photograph down. “I need a drink.”

“I’ll be right back.” Josh vanished through the doors and D’Arcy sank to the floor, knees hugged tight against her chest. Her mind circled around and around the words—Dan Hallworth and Victorine Hallworth. 1944—and came up with a long list of unanswerable questions.

“Cognac?”

D’Arcy jumped at the sound of Josh’s voice. He’d returned with a decanter and two glasses. She nodded.

Josh sat down beside her, much less awkwardly than she imagined he might be on a dusty floor beside a woman in a mini-dress who needed cognac to restore the color to her cheeks. He poured them both a drink.

“Which mystery do we start with?” he asked, as if he wanted to help.

“I don’t know,” she replied, swallowing the cognac and staring at the ceiling. “I just don’t know.”

PART THREE

Jess

The pattern of liberation is not decorative. There are the gay squiggles of wine and song. There is the beautiful overall color of freedom, but there is ruin and destruction. There are problems and mistakes, disappointed hopes and broken promises.

—Lee Miller

Ten

LONDON, MAY 1944

As May wore on, Jess and Martha, still shackled to London by the Public Relations Office, made it their business to sit in the bar at the Savoy almost every minute of every day so they could eavesdrop on any conversation that might give them a clue as to what was going on and how to get themselves attached to the invasion fleet. Martha was also doing her best to avoid Hemingway, who was at the Dorchester, thankfully, but he’d developed a nasty habit of accosting her in hallways and remonstrating with her in loud and drunken fury. All the more reason to get back over to the Continent, Jess reasoned.

It was in the bar that they first heard about parachute school.

“I wonder why we haven’t been invited to parachute school,” Jess said, smiling sweetly at the two correspondents who were having the conversation that had piqued Martha and Jess’s interest.

Martha stood up and slid into the booth beside the men. “I have a story for you,” she said.