“I—I wouldn’t.” Cilla’s voice came out hazy.
“Yes, Miss van der Zee,” Imogene said with an oily smile. “If you expect us to treat you as anything but a traitorous selkie, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
Never once had the proper retort evaded Cilla—but even that skill had disappeared, and she lowered her gaze.
“Say, Yardley.” Tar grinned at his colleague. “You haven’t chosen her code name.”
Now Yardley grinned, a sight Cilla had never seen. “Code name Selkie it is.”
Cilla’s heart floated adrift. Even the name implied a lack of trust.
10
Creag na Mara
Saturday, May 31, 1941
Dark clouds pressed like lead in the sky above, pressed like lead in Lachlan’s soul. Not even the sight of Creag na Mara could lift them.
He trudged up the lane to the creamy two-story home with its weather-mottled slate roof, grand and earthy in equal measure.
Inside the front door, he set down his overnight bag.
A woof, and Effie trotted into the entryway, her fluffy tail curled high.
Lachlan squatted before her, pressed his forehead to hers, and ran his fingers deep into her ruff. His chest ached.
“Lachlan’s home.” His mother’s voice rang from the drawing room.
Footsteps approached, and parental greetings poured warm upon him, but Lachlan couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t speak.
“Lachlan, love?” Mother asked. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head, tried to pull himself together, and stretched to standing.
Two pairs of worried eyes assessed him. Why did sympathy repel him even as he longed for it?
He pulled in a deep breath. “Do we have any tea?”
“I’ve saved our ration.” Mother gestured to the drawing room. “Come on through.”
In the drawing room, a tea tray rested on the coffee table. Lachlan settled into an armchair, his parents chose the sofa, and Mother poured cups for everyone.
Lachlan stirred his milky tea. “Have you heard about theHood?”
“Aye.” Father’s voice deepened. “Did you have friends aboard?”
He could only nod in reply. Three days after theHoodand thePrince of Walesdeparted Scapa Flow, they’d found theBismarckand thePrinz Eugenin the Denmark Strait, the passage between Greenland and Iceland.
German guns had smashed into theHood. She’d sunk in a matter of minutes. Of over fourteen hundred men on board, only three had survived.
Edmund Fitzsimmons was not one of them. Neither was Johnny Johnson. Nor were Neville Forth nor Clive Stanley nor the other officers and ratings he knew from the Royal Naval College and his service on theAntelope.
“I’m so sorry.” Mother’s brown eyes brimmed with compassion.
Lachlan dropped his gaze to his tea. “I should have done more.”
“Done more?” Father asked. “What could you do from Scapa?”
