I struggle to hold back a spring of tears as he peers into my eyes. “I’m proud of you, Fen. I truly am.” His voice reflects an effort to keep level. “And in case you ever have doubts about us, I need you to know that you made the right choice.”

Leaning in, he cups my face and places a lingering kiss on my cheek. My skin hums at the feel of his hand, his lips, a reminder of what we once had.

The reality of losing him, yet again, strikes with torrential force.

I’ll tell him I made a mistake, that we could go home together, if he’ll have me; that we can make it work for us both—despite knowing that much is a lie.

“Goodbye, Fen,” he whispers near my ear. The warmth of his breath brushes my skin. Then he pulls away and leaves without looking back.

Chapter 41

Over the many days, then weeks that follow, my most reliable salve proves the same as ever, including for my nightmares: work. I throw myself into designing inventions with gusto.

To prevent suspicion over our partnership, Hutton writes letters to key MI9 staff and our top suppliers, bemoaning his dispirited state and “imprisonment.” In truth, his sporadic jitters have yet to fully subside, leaving him tolerant of his hospital stay and conveniently available to meet. And since his eccentricities have long been viewed as madness by many in the military, keeping him here for observation has likely been encouraged.

Together on a vengeful quest, our ideas flow faster than ever.

In the end, my shelved proposal for reversible uniforms wasn’t an all-out waste; as an offshoot, we craft a woolen blanket that, when dipped in water, bears the sewing pattern of a civilian suit. This leads us to employing sock suspenders and identity disks to carry small cutters from chain-saw blades. We even pad the lining of heated gloves with banknotes. Phony gold teeth and men’s large rings are fitted with compasses. Cigarette holders transform into telescopes, lipstick tubes become flashlights, and a set of baseballs—each stealthily tagged with a single stitch out of place—smuggle the parts for a working radio.

We discover inspiration too in my old stage tricks. A mere cigarette spark turns a square of guncotton to ashes, destroying a map instantly if caught, and my recipe for invisible ink gains new purpose—with adjustments. To view words hidden on a handkerchief, I experiment with a variety of reagent solutions, staying cognizant of ingredients most accessible to downed or captured airmen. I find ammonia to be a fine choice. Yet leave it to a man, Hutton in this case, to point out that urine would work just as well. Not the most pleasant alternative, but undeniably more convenient.