“It is the webbing, I daresay. On the lengthy flights at high altitudes, the freezing air is seeping right through. Most of the heavy-bomber crews, evidently, have reverted to their old regulation boots.”

My instinctive thought, the easiest fix, is to replace the problematic material.

Except it’s not that easy. Webbing is fundamental to the entire effect.

“Okay, then,” I say, striving to seem unfazed. “I’ll hop to and solve it. I’ll call on the factory today—”

“Such labors,” he interjects, “would be for naught. I realize this is a fine smack in the eye. You will no doubt recall, however, the angry screed from a brass hat at the Air Ministry, how we had encroached on his ruddy territory. Colonel Crockatt is therefore plainly of the opinion that we not take up the matter.”

Crockatt, as the head of MI9 and a decorated war hero who served with the Royal Scots, is a shrewd organizer with no respect for red tape and thus ascribes to leniency. Which is to say, his order for us to move on means precisely that. But then I remember.

“The boots we’ve sent out. There are already five thousand pairs. What will they do with them all?”

“Don’t bother your head, Miss Vos. They might yet be of use to crews of the smaller aircraft. One never knows. Must keep a stiff upper lip, eh?”

If they plan to dispose of them, he might not tell me; where my knowledge isn’t required, he often keeps dealings to himself.

Though further deflated, I nod and smile. “Sure enough. I’ll whip up something far better.”

“That’s the spirit.” He smiles back, although I sense his disappointment is equal to mine. Likely greater. His namesake boots have been a bragging point for months.

Sure, in all fairness, if anyone should have caught their flaw early on, why not one of the many pilots and RAF brass who examined and tested them out? Still I’m agitated I didn’t fully factor in conditions of which I was aware. Wing Commander Moretti has even jokingly asked if I could devise a portable potbelly stove for his nighttime missions, claiming the flights were cold enough to freeze a can of soup.

A stove…

For soup…

My thoughts gradually shift, moving on, as is sensible to do.

Even hours later in the quiet of my room, Moretti’s words loop in my head. Combined with a sliver of my past—one bordering on blasphemy by Mrs. Jansen’s standards—an idea develops.

I envision a device that’s not just innovative but immeasurably useful. For airmen. For operatives. For the Resistance. Maybe even for civilians suffering in the cross-fire.

But first I require a vital ingredient.

While keeping heedful of its risks.

Chapter 29