The following Monday, on the cusp of evening, the verdict is in. After thrilling over the Monopoly ploy—soon to expand to Ludo, then Snakes and Ladders—Colonel Crockatt remarks on having foreseen the major’s need for a respite, and sealed by Hutton’s recommendation, he cautiously hands me the reins in the gadget arena.

“A temporary solution,” he says, a seeming disclaimer.

In time, I’ll convince him the more apt term is permanent. For the duration of the war, that is. Regardless, it’s a grand reward. Almost as satisfying are the expressions from the ATS lovelies when told the news.

Despite the added burden of responsibility, I practically float out of headquarters. The flaps of my unbuttoned coat could well be wings. I swoop past fellow staff while toting Hutton’s briefcase—ours now, really. The piney scent from surrounding trees travels on a crisp spring breeze as I turn for the bunker.

I travel no more than a few strides before a word pierces the air, powerful as a bullet. Paired with the voice, the lone syllable cuts through my core, stopping me cold.

“Fen.”

Chapter 40

Over the course of my six months at Wilton Park, the potential of this very scenario hasn’t eluded me. A dappling of American soldiers from MIS-X, our U.S. counterpart, often frequents our headquarters. At times, a resemblance in one of their profiles, or in a raspy American accent, has steeled me for a confrontation with my past.

I thought.

Now that it’s real, now that Arie is closing the few yards between us, nothing within me feels solid. My bones are candles too long in the sun. My brain is sludge, thick and muddled.

“Fen?” he repeats. “You all right?” He touches my elbow as if to ensure stability. His look of concern only adds to my confusion.

“Yes, I…I’m fine. Just…surprised.” Pull it together already.

Eyeing me from under the brim of his peaked service cap, he nods. But then he glances over his shoulder before tipping his head in that direction. “There’s a bench I saw, over by those trees. Why don’t we go sit?”

I manage to agree, but as I take a step, he halts me. “Here, let me get that.” The briefcase, I realize, barely dangles in my grip. I let go of the handle and gather myself enough to proceed on my own.

My feet guide me past a scattering of service members and around the side of the building to a simple metal bench. Above the treetops, a vibrant blend of orange and yellow saturates the sky, magnifying the surrealness of the scene.

Arie sets down my briefcase and invites me to settle first. The coolness of the seat seeps through my pencil skirt, helping to sober my senses and clear a path for my thoughts.