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Ursula smiles, but this time it’s not severe or frightening. It’s laced with love.

“She’s young.” Ursula rolls her eyes as if that frivolous attribute should rightfully disappear soon. “Even now she doesn’t understand what’s down there or its significance. But you, on the other hand, I was certain would grasp the implications.” She pauses and watches me. “How much did you see at the Kidlington house?”

“Enough.”

“And yet you still misunderstand.” She waves her hand. “I haven’t worked with Klaus Fuchs for years. In fact, there’s very little I’ve been sending out lately. I was serious when I said my children are enough. I’ve practically retired. But Felisov was negligent. The fool stacked papers carelessly, as if they were copies of The Daily Mirror, and dismissed protocol completely.”

Panic sets in. “Why would you tell me his name?”

“Why not?” She laughs at my discomfort. “I said I want you to trust me and it matters little. Fuchs already gave up Felisov’s name, Gemma. Felisov is on the run, though I expect they’ll find him soon enough. But it’s only a matter of time before Fuchs gives up my name, too, and I refuse to be caught out.”

“Did you burn the papers? Did you hit me?”

“No to the first, and I’ve already answered the second.” She raises a brow, almost challenging me to call her a liar. “But it doesn’t matter. The house is watched, always watched on my orders. Though I didn’t expect Felisov to hit you quite so hard, he was instructed to keep the house safe. He shoved you into that closet to keep you confined while he contacted me, but you got away.” She steps towards me and lifts a hand towards my head. “I’m sorry he hurt you.”

She flinches as I step back. As if embarrassed by my reaction to her care, she shifts her focus from me to my room. I follow as her eyes track what’s before us—the inexpertly handsewn curtains, the decorative touches I’ve added here and there. I see how neat and cozy it is. I see the pictures I’ve hung on the wall and the new bed coverings I ordered from a catalogue and that arrived last week. It’s a cheery space, a peaceful space. I finish my perusal with a sense of contentment, even joy, when I realize Ursula is no longer looking about my room but directly at me again.

“They’ll come for you now. You’ll have to give this up. You haven’t been discreet.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have nothing to fear from me, but who in the British Security Service will believe that? They’ll come, and they’ll scare you with all sorts of stories about me, probably move you, change your name, and who knows what else.”

My mouth drops open and she flicks her hand at me, as if I could possibly find anything to say that might interrupt her.

“It’s their playbook, and I can’t say that, in most cases, it’s not prudent.” That sly gleam dances in her eyes again. “After all, you’re the girl who saw what all those men missed right under their noses. They always focused on Len.”

“Was it ever Len?” I repeat my earlier question.

“Yes, but I’m the higher-ranking officer.” She winks—she actually winks!

“And me? What are you going to do with me? Why will they move me?” I can’t hide the panic that sends my heart racing. Move me? Change my name? What about my life here? My home? Charlie? “I’m not a threat to you.”

“No, you never were. Not really. And I’m certainly not going to do anything to you. At least not at present.” She grins, and this time it’s warm and friendly and reminds me of the woman I truly admired. “You were my friend, Gemma. You are my friend. In fact, you remind me much of myself at your age. I’m sorry I ever let you get so close to me that it could change your life like this. That wasn’t my intention.”

Her short laugh is full of derision. “Perhaps I’ve grown soft. You, your friendship, your sharp intellect . . . You delighted me.”

“So you weren’t trying to recruit me?” I can only whisper the question as it’s a thread of thought that’s plagued me the past few days. One I refused to pull taut, afraid I’d discover I was merely a pawn.

She guffaws heartily now. “Recruit you? No more than one friend recruits another. I suppose, yes, I wanted you to see things my way, but I wasn’t about to send you on a mission if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“The lamb shoulder?”

“Was delicious. Thank you so much for picking that up.” She crosses my room to the armchair and drops into it. She gestures to the other as if we are at her house about to share tea. We aren’t, but I still lower myself into the chair.

I want to ask more about the lamb shoulder, its wrappings, and the man who followed me, but she begins again before I can form a word.

“You’re not a threat to me, Gemma, and I am not one to you either. I hope you’ll be honest about me, perhaps a bit kind when they come to question you. Because they’ll want to know everything, and you’ve got plenty stored away in that brain of yours. I know how much you notice, how much you retain.” Ursula waggles a finger towards me. “Especially Millicent Bagot. She’ll want every little morsel you’ve got in that fine brain of yours.”

I swallow. “Who is Millicent Bagot?”

“She’s the only MI5 officer who ever came close to truly seeing me. But no one believed her. They will now, especially after the papers you gave them.”

This time I can’t swallow. My throat stops working. “How did you know?”

“When Felisov told me he’d knocked you out but that you’d gotten away, the first question I asked was if he’d searched you. He had not. So I knew. I would’ve taken papers too.”

“But”—I take us back to the salient point—“they don’t have to move me or change my name to interview me.”