The Darkest Hour(81)

Tilly might be writing in code about our new agents, but even the Nazis would be able to read the hope in her words. I know that she desperately wants to hang the title of “Agent” next to her name again, but I doubt I’ll see her until the war ends. Her doctors won’t let her return to France without a clean bill of health, and I’m sure Chapman wouldn’t take her back even if she had one. She was still spouting Heil Hitler when we reached London together. As much as I want her back, she’d be seen as too much of a risk to bring back into Covert Ops’ fold.

I take comfort in that, though. I’d much rather have Tilly scarred yet alive than scarred and dead. I don’t want to lose another friend to this war.

An angry wave breaks over the rocks, sending cold water into my boots, and I know I better get a move on things. I reach into my bag and pull out two glass bottles from it, each one holding a slim slip of paper. I wrote both of them this morning. A letter for Theo. A letter for Sabine.

I step to the edge of the stony cliff as the frothy waves tumble ten feet below me. My right foot sinks into a puddle and more water sneaks into my boot, but I’ll deal with the wet socks and cold feet later. I take Sabine’s bottle into my hand, the glass cold to the touch. She has been gone for months now, and there are some days when I still don’t know what to think about her. I don’t know if I can let go of the anger I feel at her betrayal, but at the same time I think I finally understand why she did it. I may not agree with it—and Tilly will have to live with the consequences of Sabine’s choice for the rest of her life—but she did try to make things right in the end. I’ve decided that has to count for something.

I launch the bottle into the air, and it disappears into the thickening fog. Soon, the current will push that bottle out to sea and toward a place where there won’t be any bombs or war. It’s the sort of place that I hope Sabine is in now, someplace where she can be with her brother.

“Safe travels,” I whisper.

I reach for the second bottle. For Theo’s. My chest twinges and I curl my fingers around the neck of it, as if it’s my dead brother’s hand. There are actually two letters inside of this bottle, one from me and one from Ruthie. I wrote to her when I was in London, and she had written me back before I left. She thought I had run off to California, and it wasn’t until she’d received my letter that she discovered I had been on the war front all along. She told me to keep safe and that Theo would’ve been real proud of me, but that wasn’t the part that made me tear up. No, it was the way she had signed it: Your sister, Ruthie.

I cork the bottle and toss it far into the waves. It’s fitting, I think. My letter together with Ruth’s. Theo would have liked that.

With the bottles dispersed, I know that I should sneak back into town, but I linger for a moment longer and look up at the dark clouds. I don’t know if Theo is somewhere up there watching over me, but if he is, I think I know what he’d ask from me.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” I say. Whether or not I believe in that prayer anymore, I’ve repeated it every night for Theo because I promised him once that I would. And here I am, ready to make him another one. “I’ll take care of her, you hear?” I whisper to the clouds. “I’ll watch out for Ruthie.”

I pick my way back over the rocks. My little cottage is a few miles off, and there are three dozen tasks waiting for me once I return—radio messages to send, a pair of binoculars to fix, and a list of possible recruits to look over—and the thought of all that makes me bone-tired. At times like these, when I’m cold and exhausted, I wonder if I should’ve taken up Covert Ops’ offer for a plane ticket home. I could be with Maman again. I could drink tea with Ruthie. I wouldn’t wake up every night with every croak and groan of the floorboards. But there’ll be time for all of that later.

I came to France for Theo, but now I stay here for myself. I don’t plan on setting foot beyond these borders until this country is free from Hitler’s hands and until we’re all free from the Nazis’ tight noose. That’s my newest mission—not vengeance or punishment, but this small speck of hope that we won’t always be ruled by the swastika. And I swear to that on my name—not as Sister Marchand or Fleurette Dupre or Marie-Louise or Julia Bellerose—but as me, Lucie Blaise.





To the women of the OSS and SOE, thank you for your courage. You are heroes, plain and simple.

To the Allied veterans of WWII, especially the ones who served in North Africa, thank you for your service. Your bravery will never be forgotten.

To Jody Corbett, thank you for being the editor that every writer hopes for—smart, passionate, insightful, and kind. I feel so lucky to work with you!

To the entire Scholastic team, thank you for your hard work in turning my Word document into a real book! A special shout-out to Carol Ly for making it look so beautiful. It’s such a dream come true to be a part of the Scholastic family.

To Jim McCarthy, thank you for being Mr. Agent Awesome. I’m so grateful to have you in my corner.

To Sonja Gogic, thank you for being an amazing friend and for taking such wonderful care of my little “crankopotamus.” I couldn’t have written this book without you.

To Amanda Fein and Allison Young, thank you for cheering me on during my entire writing journey. You are the two best friends a girl could ever wish for.