“A dance?” Cilla spun to Imogene, and the wind slung her hair across her face. She brushed it back. “May I join you?”
Imogene’s pert little nose shriveled. “You are not invited.”
Cilla rubbed the back of her hand. When she was a child, how many times had her parents slapped her hand for grabbing forbidden items? She’d never been able to resist the Delft candlesticks. But if she had resisted, she’d never have known the cool smoothness or the intricate blue designs.
Imogene turned a pretty smile to Gwen. “And your plans?”
“After church, I’m writing letters.”
Cilla stopped a few feet from the lighthouse door. She’d never cared for church, but she did care to see people. “Church? May I join you?”
A tremor raced across Gwen’s brow. “I—I’d rather not.”
Imogene tapped the back of her colleague’s arm. “Don’t be such a mouse around her. You have a revolver and the authority to use it.”
Poor sweet Gwen, terrified of the woman she assumed to be an enemy spy, and Cilla gave her a soft smile. “Please. I’d love to attend church.”
“She said she’d rather not bring you.” Imogene smiled, but her eyes were icicle blue. “Once again, you arenotinvited.”
Cilla could create icicles too. “Commander Yardley said I had Sundays free, and I could—”
“Only if one of us accompanies you.” Imogene lifted one slender shoulder. “We’d rather not.”
Why, the little ...
But anger never changed minds, so Cilla merely strode to the lighthouse door.
Mr. Hall stepped outside in his blue lightkeeper’s uniform and white hat. He handed Cilla a piece of paper, gave her a concise report of the night’s lack of activity, and crossed the courtyard to his quarters.
After Cilla stepped inside, Imogene stood with her hand on the doorknob. “Say, Gwen, did you hear last night on the BBC that those two Nazi spies captured in Edinburgh were sentenced to death?” She gave Cilla a simpering smile. “Have a lovely day.”
The door slammed shut. The bolt clicked.
“Have a lovely day too,” Cilla muttered.
She climbed the spiral staircase. “Another lovely day in my lovely, lovely prison.”
In the lightroom at the top, she caught her breath and searched for loveliness, for comfort. Clouds scuttered acrossthe sky in hues of gray. Slanting rain blurred the horizon to the west. The waters churned gray and white below.
And silence buzzed in her ears.
At least today’s meeting with Yardley and Mackenzie would break the tedium of washing windows and mopping floors and marking boats and planes in her log.
How long could she bear this? For ten days, she’d been confined to the same tower, to walks on the same square of greenery, to the same silence. To the same dreadful sameness.
The triangular iron window frames pressed in like prison bars. “I can’t do this,” she said to no one, always to no one.
Why had she come to Britain? In the Netherlands—even under Nazi rule—she could visit friends and family. She could hop on a tram or a bicycle and trek around the city—even to the country.
Gerrit’s voice rumbled in her memory.“Sometimes you have to find freedom inside the trap.”
“There is no freedom in this trap, Gerrit.” She shook her hand west, toward home. “None. You’re brilliant, but you’re wrong.”
This trap contained nothing but monotony. Mind-numbing, maddening monotony.
She clapped both hands to the back of her neck. “I’m already talking to myself.”
The door creaked open far downstairs, and male voices drifted up the staircase.
