She gathered the photos from the two rolls she’d finished and slid them into her bag, along with the undeveloped film. It would be lunchtime at the OB, which meant she wouldn’t likely run into anyone she knew.
Just as she wanted it. She couldn’t bear to look at any of them right now. Not given the note she’d written upon rising that morning, telling the admiral of her intent to resign.
The house was quiet. Ivy was at the school, the maid must be upstairs somewhere, Eaton was polishing the silver. She could have just slipped out. Would have, a week ago. Today she slid to the drawing room door and peeked in.
Mama sat at her easel, moving her brush over a canvas with furious strokes. The light was all wrong in the room. Clouds had rolled in sometime while Lily was in her darkroom. Usually, that’s when Euphemia Blackwell would pack up her paints and shift to another task—a preliminary sketch, perhaps, or a composition study in pastels or watercolors, while she sorted through how best to achieve what she wanted in her actual oil painting.
“Mama?”
No response.
Taking a deep breath, she edged into the room. “Mama, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I . . . I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing you—which is, of course, exactly what I did by trying to spare you. I see that now. But I want you to know . . .” She gripped her bag and wished her mother would just turn around and look at her. Scold her. Yell at her. “I’m going to the OB now. I had some film I brought home that is theirs. I’m returning it, along with my resignation.”
“Why?”
Lily blinked. Mama’s voice was so flat. Lifeless. “Why what?”
Still she didn’t turn, just continued to lay down angry strokes of red on the canvas. “Why are you resigning? If it’s because I’m upset, then don’t. I won’t have the entire Intelligence Division blaming that on me too.”
“It isn’t. It’s—you were right, I think. This isn’t what my art should be used for.” Her throat went tight, stopping any other words.
Usually, Mama would have lured more out of her with a well-placed question. Usually, she would have come over and wrapped her arms around her.
Now she didn’t even slow in her work. Lily swallowed down the emotion and turned. “I shouldn’t be gone long.”
Silence followed her out, through the familiar neighborhoods, all the way to the Old Building. Because it was her habit, she went in the back. But up the stairs, not down. It wouldn’t matter if anyone recognized her. Zivon had apparently seen her anyway, had put it all together.
Zivon. Daddy had forbidden her from seeking him out, made her promise she would report directly home and not meet him and Clarke and Ivy in the park. That no more invitations would be issued. That she wouldn’t try to find him here.
She’d never considered herself particularly rebellious. But the more she thought of his new list of rules, the more she found herself looking for Zivon’s familiar smooth stride in the corridors and hoping, praying she’d run into him now. When she’d have every legitimate excuse for doing so. When Daddy could say nothing in argument.
She had to see him again, tell him she didn’t hold his inadvertent secret-spilling against him. It hadn’t been his fault. He hadn’t realized Mama didn’t know. And more, she should have. Lily never should have kept such a secret in the first place. But even more, she had to tell him how sorry she was for all the pain he was suffering. She had to tell him . . .
But he was nowhere in sight as she made her way to the admiral’s office. The secretary wasn’t at her desk outside it, so she tapped on the door, expecting silence in reply. He surely had a lunch meeting with some lord of this or that. She would just slip in and leave the film for him, along with her note.
“Enter.”
Her hand, already halfway to the door, paused. Hung suspended for a long moment. This hadn’t been her plan at all.
Don’t be a coward, Lily. Rolling back her shoulders, she opened the door and stepped inside.
Hall glanced up. Gave her the barest echo of a smile, and then looked back down at whatever papers were on his desk. “I thought you meant to take the day off.”
Lily cleared her throat. “I needed to bring these back to you. The film I developed this morning. And what I didn’t get a chance to do.”
When she set the bag down on the corner of his massive desk, DID regarded her solemnly, taking in everything with one of his blinks, it seemed. “And why, pray tell, are you giving the undeveloped rolls to me? Do them tomorrow if you haven’t the time today.”
A shake of the head was all she could manage for a moment. It was tempting to just reach into her bag, pull out the letter, and hand it over. But he deserved more than that. “I won’t be coming in tomorrow, sir. My mother was quite upset to learn about my involvement here, and—no. It isn’t her fault.” She squeezed her eyes shut to block out that knowing face of his. “The truth is, Admiral, I can’t keep doing this. Not knowing the cost. I can’t live with the idea that my work was the cause of death last night. Death of my neighbors, innocent women and children. And so I’ve come today to offer my resignation.”
There. She’d said it. She opened her eyes again, not sure what to expect.
Hall rose halfway out of his chair, leaning forward onto his desk. “I decline to accept it.”
He—what? “But—”
“There are no buts, Lilian Blackwell. You may not wear a uniform, but you are an employee of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and as such, your comings and goings are not yours to decide. You will not resign just because you had a bad night. You will keep fighting this war in the way God and king have asked of you. Do I make myself clear?”
Digging her hands into the back of the chair across from his desk, she shook her head. “But I can’t, sir. I can’t live with myself, knowing—”
“Knowing what?” He straightened the rest of the way, eyes flashing. “That you obeyed the command of your superior officer? Or do you think I too ought to be so guilt-ridden that I should resign?”
Lily opened her mouth, though she wasn’t certain how to reply. Of course she didn’t think he should resign, but that was different. Wasn’t it?
He lifted a brow. “Or perhaps you think you know better than I how to run this division? Do you know all the inner workings of the High Command? Are you fit to decide how and when to use the intelligence that comes across this desk?”
She tried to swallow, though it did nothing to ease her throat. She could only shake her head again.
“I thought not.” He rounded the desk, and though he wasn’t more than a few inches taller than she was, it felt as though he towered over her. “We make difficult choices here every day. What information we can act on, what we cannot. And yes, people die, Lilian. People die because of the information we act on or file away. This is the burden of intelligence, but it is not a burden that you have the right to feel guilty over.”
The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of the admiral, but it took everything within her to hold it back. “How? How can I not?”
“Because that is grossly unfair to all the lives you save with your work. All the bombs that have not fallen because you helped me dissuade the enemy or redirect them. All the soldiers and agents whose identities you protect.” He lifted her bag, shoved it back into her arms. “You will not resign.”