I pin on a smile before angling toward Hutton, who swiftly adds, “We must be on our way.” He strides past me toward his coat tree in the corner as I steady my thoughts, at a loss over where he’d be taking me.

“Our way—where?”

“Adastral House,” he proclaims. “It appears our luck is in with the Ministry. The head of purchasing wants us to look in immediately regarding the self-heating soup.”

I’m relieved slightly until I spare a glance at the briefcase. One of the folders is now blatantly cockeyed. As Hutton retrieves and slips on his overcoat, I lean back casually against his desk to block his sight line. “I take it he liked the gadget,” I say.

“I am most certain he will, once he knows what it is.”

“I’m…not sure I understand.” This is the truth but also a prompt to keep him occupied.

“Among the samples we sent, not a solitary one was so much as acknowledged by those blooming clots. Hence, I submitted one of the cans in a form that could not be easily overlooked.”

“Oh? How is that?”

He pauses from donning his brimmed hat, looking prideful. “In the wee hours, a monstrous six-foot crate boldly marked Personal was delivered to Air Commodore Wright’s office. In that crate, I had suspended a single can labeled Danger. And wouldn’t you know it? His call for a presentation arrived without delay.”

My eyes widen, not falsely, at the vision. Yet I think to reply, “My goodness, that’s grand. You’re right, we ought to be going!” In a zealous motion, I jab my elbow into his bag, just enough to knock it onto its side and prevent suspicion over the folder. “Sorry about that.” I cringe. “How clumsy.”

He waves this away kindly but then dashes over to grab the briefcase.

And we’re off.

Chapter 33

With both of Hutton’s drivers out on supply runs, he borrows an Austin Utility truck, known as a “Tilly,” to deliver us to the Ministry himself. During the half-hour jaunt, or double that—it’s hard to gauge from his frenzied weaving around cars—I attempt to study him while mulling over his memo.

Sure, he could be troubled by another Dutch girl, though in all honesty, what are the odds?

Once we’ve arrived in the waiting area, I sit facing the air commodore’s closed door. Its obscure window prevents any glimpse of what awaits inside. Out here and pried open, the crate Hutton sent takes up a hefty portion of the room. A thin rope, frayed from being cut, hangs in the box.

As I learned on the drive, when Hutton received our summons, he was at least gracious enough to inform the clerk over the phone that the tin wasn’t in fact dangerous. Why we’re still being welcomed to present the gadget is a mystery. Or maybe we’re not.