He understands my reasoning of course. The wing commander, a fatherly type with Italian roots, nicknamed “Gramps” by his aircrew for his wreath of dark hair and ripe age of forty-two, often skirts protocol to obtain our sample gadgets for passengers—agents, presumably—of his nightly ferrying drops.

“I presume they were free of charge?” Hutton says.

“Completely. I simply told the clerk they’d be used for the war effort.” From the Official Secrets Act I signed upon first arriving at Wilton Park, I knew not to expound unless necessary and with permission. “He handed them straight over. Both his sons are in the army, he said, so he was terribly keen to help.”

Hutton nods again, but with a dimming expression.

Only then do I recall the parallels, with his own son in the Australian Army and another in the Royal Navy, both back in action after recovering from wounds. I assume there was a wife at some point but have refrained from probing, leaving the past where it belongs.

I divert to alleviate the mood. “Sir, from your message this morning, I believe you had news of a development…”

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” His demeanor doesn’t lighten. If anything, it gains additional weight, appearing to add a slight quiver to his hand as he gestures. “Please, have a seat.”

As he resettles behind his desk, the prospect of my celebration slipping away, I lower onto a ladder-back chair across from him.

“Is everything all right, Major?”

“A rather sticky problem has arisen, I’m afraid, as pertains to the boots.”

“The boots?”

“Why, our ‘Hutton Flying Boots.’”

I knew what he meant, naturally. I just didn’t expect them to be an issue. After all, the airmen’s footwear had endured extensive scrutiny before distribution, by Hutton included, as a pilot of the Great War. Although they were awarded his name—a decision unworthy of protest, as I’d incorporated several elements he previously crafted, and besides, I was long accustomed to working behind the scenes—I was unabashedly proud of the result. Particularly when they were approved for the entire Royal Air Force, the heavy-bomber crews taking priority.

The RAF’s original boots, you see, bore padding that was troublesome in both wet and hot weather. Worst of all, they were conspicuous for evading capture. And so I transformed a comfortable business shoe into an airman’s boot, armed with hidden compartments, saw-encased shoelaces, and a cloth loop concealing a razor—for a key purpose. When needed, the tiny blade slices away the ankle-high webbing, detaching the fur-lined leggings to create a waistcoat, and presto! Civilian shoes that blend right in. They were splendidly cunning, many said. Practical. Lifesaving.

“Sir, I don’t understand. Whatever has gone wrong with them?”

“By all reports, they are simply not withstanding the cold properly.”

“That can’t be. The base of the shoe keeps plenty warm.”