Alice was in a part of London that the world had forgotten. The East End slums and council housing had been razed and ravaged—and whatever the Luftwaffe and their Messerschmitts hadn’t annihilated had been looted and vandalized, or so an older woman told her when she stopped to ask the way. “I’m not sure you should be wandering around here by yourself,” the woman added in a hoarse voice. But Alice was long past caring for her own well-being, although she couldn’t ignore her heart palpitations. Were they born out of anxiety or anticipation because there was a small chance Joe Stevenson, Olive’s informer, would be able to help?

A raven-black cloud obscured the sun, throwing the street into temporary darkness, and Elizabeth’s words reverberated in her mind: Olive has good reason to want justice . . . but be careful. That was exactly what Alice planned to do, and she’d come up with a way to speak to Joe without risking herself or Olive.

The meeting place, a public house called the Black Swan, was on a corner site, the only business open in the row of closed shops. There was an ugly right angle of metal and glass to one side, and patched wooden hoarding on the other.

Alice couldn’t see through the beveled glass door, so she moved inside the doorway, palms prickling as she gripped the handle. Remember your story, Alice. Think about Eadie. Think about William and how brave he was, how brave and strong all soldiers are.

There was a narrow bar at the back and upholstered stools, the rest of the room given over to a dining area of Formica tables and red vinyl chairs. A dark-haired man with a slight build moved back and forth behind the bar, serving customers: Joe. According to Elizabeth’s description, he had eyes that never stayed still, and she’d also learned that the librarian had delivered and collected packages on a few occasions.

“What can I get you?” he asked Alice when she approached.

“Oh, just a soda water, please.”

He leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms, a frown knitting his dark eyebrows together. “You can’t have come all this way just for that.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her hands clenching.

“I can tell you’re not from round here, and our egg sandwiches are notorious,” he said with a grin.

“Yes, you’re right.” She noticed he wasn’t from round here either: his accent was from the Midlands, or maybe further north. “I’ll have one of your notorious sandwiches too,” she said with a polite smile.

She observed him as he poured her drink and wrote the order down: average height, hair neatly groomed into a single wave and shirtsleeves rolled up—ordinary in every way, except that he could be the person who held the key to finding Eadie.