Drawing on my childhood, we even rig smoking pipes and flasks—both being winks to Papa—and on the ribbons of packages, we use Morse code in a printed pattern of flowers and leaves. That one naturally pulls my thoughts to Arie, but I refuse to dwell.

Of course, my working with Hutton isn’t always a breeze. Although we’ve traded enough personal tales to be on a first-name basis—at least on his side, preferring to be called “Clutty” while finding it improper to address me as anything but Miss Vos—my hardheaded independence clashes at times with his conventional if evolving views of female roles and capabilities. More than once, a nurse has shushed our bickering over opinions on a design before we’ve inevitably found ways to compromise.

In the aftermath of those quibbles, I think of Charles.

I reflect, not proudly, on the countless times I brushed off his input. And now that I’m the showman onstage accepting the entirety of credit, I finally sense how he must have felt: a nagging falsity amid the praise.

Even in this moment, despite the sunny morning that defies the late-April showers, this feeling persists. For as I approach the entrance of headquarters, Lenora stops to offer her congratulations.

“I hear many of your gadgets were just placed in the Bulletin,” she says, referring to the official training pamphlet.

I hold my briefcase handle snugly and keep my response genial but vague. “I’m just glad they’re being put to good use.”

She seems to be gauging her next words before two Canadian soldiers exit the building. Weaving around us, they suspend their chat to send flirtatious once-overs, adding to my discomfort.

I’m about to excuse myself for a summons from Colonel Crockatt when Lenora resumes. “I hope, Miss Vos, you don’t mind my saying so. But for a time, it appeared you wouldn’t be staying. I’m delighted you did.”

The remark is surprising, her tone genuine. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” Only half in jest, I admit, “You’re giving me hope that others in my department will eventually come around.”

“Oh, I’m certain they will. After all, you’ve long proven—” She self-censors too late.

“Proven…”

“That…you’re no Mrs. Bote.”

Not understanding, I shake my head.

Then Lenora cracks a smile, as if there’s no harm in sharing. “Major Hutton had entrusted Mrs. Bote with the early escape tins—assembling them, that is. As a civilian, she was so pleased to be asked that she transformed the whole of her house, in a village not far from here, into a one-person factory.”

Familiar with the pocket-size kit and how meticulously the dozens of survival aids needed to be packed inside, I can only guess how this applies to me. “I take it her finished products were less than stellar.”

“On the contrary.”

I narrow my eyes.