As my words trail off, he says, “From the vetting for your clearance, Miss Vos. We do deal in intelligence, after all.” He offers an amused smile that I don’t reciprocate. I begrudge how much he knows of my past, how much he’s known all along without letting on.

He appears to detect this and levels his tone. “Rest content, I have it on very good authority that what happened at Bethnal Green shan’t be repeated.”

A ridiculous assertion. Not masking my view, I laugh under my breath. “There is no way you or anyone else can possibly ensure that.”

“Quite the reverse,” he states. Then he glances at the door as if to confirm privacy; his paranoid sensibilities now allude to more than eccentricity. “I divulge this in the strictest of confidence.” He continues with a rueful air: “Prior to my…episode…I inquired as to what transpired at the shelter, given a lack of news reports on the matter. Parliament felt a media blackout was best—for morale, as it were—on account that the Jerries weren’t to blame. Sadly, it was our own anti-aircraft munitions that inspired the panic.”

Right off, I find this difficult to believe. The East Enders, of all people, know the sounds of their ack-acks. My mind can still hear the strange whistling and whirring. The thunderous noise and clattering of shell casings were surely the product of German innovation, a weapon we’d yet to encounter.

“I’m sorry, but no. That can’t be right. What we heard was distinctly different.”

“Indeed it was a new type of rocket, fired for the first time. In an unannounced test, they were launched from Victoria Park, a half mile from the shelter. With the ghastly effects that resulted, I assure you those guns shall be swiftly relocated, if not retired.”

I’m about to debate him further when I recall the night’s absence of decimation. No visible explosions. No buildings torn to rubble. No signs of any aircraft.

And it all fits.

Hutton shared his insight as a comfort and cause for me to stay. Rather, it delivers a fresh wave of nausea and an even greater reason to leave. For once again, a massive tragedy has proven utterly, horrifically senseless.

No more dithering over my traveling home.

“As I said,” I manage, “I’ve made my decision. I plan to depart as soon as possible. But I do thank you for the opportunity.” Unwavering, I start away.

“Miss Vos.”

I’m nearly to the door when he says in a rush, “You cannot just leave the country. It will not be permitted.”

My steps slow despite my yearning to run.

Is he lying to keep me here? Or is it the truth?

I pivot back to decipher which.

“As yours is a reserved occupation,” he explains calmly, “it is the British government’s prerogative to bar your departure.”