Cilla’s lip hurt. She was biting it. Getting tense. But tension caused errors.
She huffed out a breath and kept tapping.
Almost done, and she’d transmitted her security key early in the message. With a flourish, she tapped the final three letters.
Cilla sat back and grinned at Gwen. “All done.”
“Good.” The girl averted her soft brown eyes. She no longer jumped whenever Cilla moved, but that hardly seemed worth celebrating.
“How many mistakes?” Imogene gave Cilla a cool appraising look.
“None.”
“None in a fortnight,” Cilla said with a satisfied smile. Certainly that deserved some praise. In training in Hamburg, Cilla had never transmitted with such accuracy—and she’d received overflowing accolades.
Imogene’s gaze sharpened and snapped to Gwen. “Don’t let your guard down.”
“I won’t.” Gwen unplugged the crystal from Cilla’s wireless set, inactivating it. The Wrens locked up the crystals so Cilla couldn’t transmit clandestinely.
Pain pressed on Cilla’s chest. They would never like her. Never trust her. Nor would Yardley or Mackenzie.
Yet Kraus liked her. Genuinely liked her.
Cilla gripped her hands together. Why did she work so hard for people who hated her?
Her aquamarine ring shifted in her grip, and she twisted it around her finger. A gift from Moeder and Vader on her sixteenth birthday, and grief welled in her throat.
She missed them. Missed Hilde and Gerrit and all her friends, people who liked her.
People living under Nazi rule.
The Germans had liked Cilla because she lied about agreeing with their beliefs. They only liked those who agreed with them, like Arno and Hilde.
Gerrit opposed them, and the Nazis would kill him if they discovered what he was doing. Just as they’d killed Dirk.
With one finger, Cilla pressed the aquamarine until it warmed to her touch.
Better to work for those who stood for everything good and right. Even if they hated her.
16
Mainland, Orkney Islands
Thursday, July 17, 1941
Wind ruffled the green grasses and purple heather and Lachlan’s hair. Before him on the narrow isthmus between two lochs, three dozen neolithic stones knifed up from the ground in a perfect circle, marred only by tank tracks from a military exercise in June.
Beside him, Arthur shielded his eyes from the evening sun. “It’s rather like Stonehenge. I never knew this was here.”
“The Ring of Brodgar,” Lachlan said. “I told you this was a land of beauties.”
Arthur’s smile skewed to the side. “Speaking of beauties, we should bring the ladies here for a picnic.”
A groan formed in Lachlan’s chest, but he tamped it down as he led Arthur down the slope to the road. “You should delay plans until your latest victim meets me tomorrow night.”
“Victim? You have so little faith in me. This time Irene and I have chosen the perfect woman for you.”
“Have you?” Lachlan picked up his bicycle from its resting place on the heather, mounted it, and began pedaling.
