The Darkest Hour(10)

“Could we have a butler?”

He laughed. “A butler?”

“His name will be Sir Chive. That sounds fancy, doesn’t it? He’d be British.”

“You sure say some crazy things.” When I blushed, he slung an arm around me. “We’ll call him Sir Chive if that’s what you want.”

“Can we bring Maman with us, too?”

“We wouldn’t leave without her.” He didn’t mention a word about Papa, and I didn’t, either. There was nothing to be said that we didn’t already know—that we’d happily pile into a sailboat and turn our backs on Baltimore if that meant never seeing our father again.

I place the bottle back into place and shut the drawer tight. Harken has forbidden us to have any personal items at headquarters in case we’re ever compromised, but Tilly and I have been discreet. In her own nightstand, she has hidden a small bottle of champagne that was a gift from Delphine and a silk handkerchief of her mother’s that reminds her of home. Although home is a loose term in her case.

Tilly’s family has houses all over the world—and in places I’ve never even heard of, like Porto and Catania. Her grandfather made a fortune in the fireworks business, and now the Fairbanks family has some of the deepest pockets in all of America—plenty to buy a seat in Congress for one uncle and a governorship for another. That’s how her parents can afford their multiple mansions, though Tilly considers only one place home: the Bouvier Academy for Girls. It’s the boarding school in Paris where she has lived since she was seven. She can speak French like a native, and that’s one of the reasons why Major Harken tapped her for Covert Ops, along with her firsthand knowledge of explosives. She’s our bang-and-burn specialist. Demolitions and sabotage.

Before I can ask Tilly about what she was up to tonight, there’s a rap on the door. I sigh because it has to be Sabine.

“We’ll keep our voices down,” I call out, but the door opens and Sabine is nowhere in sight. It’s Major Harken. Both Tilly and I jump to our feet.

“Get to the meeting room now,” Harken says.

Tilly hurries toward him, although I linger in place. Does he plan on giving me the sack in front of everyone?

“Come on.” Harken jabs a finger at me, and I dart out of the bunkroom.

“Is everything all right, Major?” I ask slowly, but Harken throws his hand up.

“No, nothing is all right,” he snaps. Then, in the chilly dimness of the hallway, he tells us something that makes my very bones shudder. “We have a Class One crisis on our hands.”





When I arrived at headquarters three months ago, all bright-eyed and green and ready to take down Adolf Hitler single-handedly, Major Harken had brought me into the meeting room and launched into our very first briefing. It was right down to business for him, no time for chitchat, and what was the first thing he drilled me on?

Covert Ops’ level of crises.

There are five levels total, ranging from the lowest infraction, a Class 5, and up to the highest, a Class 1. The lower crises will land you on desk duty for a week. That happened to Tilly a while back. She got slapped with a Class 5 for getting tailed by the Nazis and not shaking them off within a few blocks, and Harken had her rearranging the weaponry and washing everyone’s sheets for a week. In the grand scheme of things, though, a 4 or 5 aren’t too bad. Now, a Class 2 or 3 are more severe. Let’s say the Gestapo dragged you in for an interrogation. Even if you managed to get away, you’d have to retire an entire alias, not to mention getting quarantined at headquarters until Harken deemed it safe for you to work above ground again. That’s what happened to me a month after I arrived. A Class 3.

As for a Class 1, Major Harken hadn’t uttered a word about it except to tell me: If that happens—and it hasn’t yet—you might as well hand in your resignation and swim back to Baltimore.

I’d shivered then, just as I’m doing now. Filled with dread, I follow Tilly into the meeting room, ducking my head to avoid the ancient ceiling beams, and take the seat next to her. Sabine is waiting for us there and lighting a tray of pillar candles that sit atop a monstrosity of a farm table with trunk-thick legs. A map of Europe hangs on the wall opposite us, dotted with pinheads to mark where our agents are located.

Major Harken strides into the room and ignores the abundance of chairs in front of him, opting to pace in front of the map. I drum my fingers on my knee. The silence is slowly choking me, and the question tumbles out of me before I can rein it back.

“What happened in Reims, sir?”

Major Harken grips the back of a chair, kneading the wood like baguette dough. When he speaks, I hear a tremor weaving through his voice.

“They’re dead,” he says finally.

Dead? The shiver multiplies across my arms. He must mean our Resistance contacts. We rely on them to act as our eyes and ears around town—certainly not easy jobs, and there’s always a risk that one of them might be compromised. I wonder if that’s why Laurent was here.

“Who’s dead?” Sabine asks. “Is it Xavier? Thierry?”

“No, I’m not talking about the Resistance.” Major Harken bows his head. “Two of our agents are gone. Possibly three.”

There are sharp intakes of breath around the room. Two agents dead? Maybe three?