Less than a dozen hours from my own flight, it’s surreal to be enjoying the leisure of a matinee. Truth be told, I’d forgotten all about our Saturday plans until Lenora arrived at the George in her “civvies,” with a coat over her skirt and blouse. After my final briefing at headquarters, I was storing my unneeded belongings with the inn manager, who seemed accustomed to Wilton Park guests popping in and out. Despite being packed and ready for my mission, I had half a mind to cancel on Lenora until she dangled a suggestion.

“I fancied we might see Springtime in the Rockies, playing at Piccadilly Circus. The musical comedy, you know, with Betty Grable and John Payne.”

Compared to an afternoon holed up in my room cursing the torturous wait, the diversion held appeal. I just hadn’t factored in the preceding wartime updates, scenes that suddenly strike me as a warning—not to turn back but to brace for failure. After all, scores of our sophisticated planes and inscribed arsenals still haven’t secured total victory. How will my abilities alone fare against the Nazis?

My gaze retreats to my lap. These past few days, with my attention narrow and driven, I’ve managed to skirt thoughts of being captured by the enemy. But now, under a projector’s beam, reminiscent of countless picture shows Arie and I shared—with our laughing, discussing, debating—I’m cornered by my fears. None greater than of not finding him in time.

“Fenna…” The whisper drifts from Lenora. “Are you all right?”

I lift my eyes to her concerned expression. Before I can answer, flickers from the screen hook me back, to Nazi soldiers parading in goose-step, the road lined with flag-waving Germans.

“I’m dandy,” I reply lightly while craving a reprieve. Moviegoers in a myriad of uniforms dabble every row. “I just need to use the loo.”

The instant she nods, I slip out of my aisle seat and stride toward the lobby. In the lounge area of the lavatory, a space wallpapered in pink fleur-de-lis and gratefully vacant, I stand before the vanity mirror. I take a series of soothing breaths, inhaling traces of lingering perfume.

In the mirror’s reflection, Lenora steps through the door. She hovers several feet behind, surely perplexed; my distracted reserve, fun as a bump on a log, has no doubt been wearing.

I tell myself to pep up. I’ll attribute blame to the stress of work—which technically isn’t false. But as I pivot to face her, given the potential perils of my mission, namely that I might never come back, I’m seized by a desire to be as candid as allowed.

“I’m sorry, Lenora. There are just some things happening.”

“It’s quite fine.” She tenders a faint smile as I continue.