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Lady Marchmont shrugs. “It depends who you talk to. More information comes out every day. If you ask Mr. Serpell and Mr. Skardon, she was nothing. If you ask Miss Bagot, who you will meet and who has been following Mrs. Beurton closely these past several years, she was the Soviet Union’s queen. The most powerful piece on the board.”

“Except it’s not a game.”

“It’s always a game, my dear. A dangerous one, yes. A game that has cost millions their lives this century alone. But it’s still a game. That’s why I’m here. To discuss your next moves.” She sighs and casts a glance at Chief Wilmot. “Ursula Beurton was and is a Soviet spy, Gemma, and that is not a job you retire from. So we must assume you are not safe as the KGB protects its own.”

“She said you’d say that. She also said I had nothing to fear from her but that you’d still believe I’m in danger.”

“Can we take the risk you’re not?”

I shrug. “Oddly, I believe her.”

Lady Marchmont nods as if digesting this new information. “I understand and I hope you are right. But she was right too; we can’t take that risk. Your life will look very different from this moment forward.”

She stands, with far more grace and elegance than I’ve been able to manage doing anything, and takes in my room. “There’s much more to discuss, but I feel we can find a more suitable setting, don’t you?”

She invites me to her home for dinner. “My chauffeur, Gilbert, will pick you up at half past five. That’ll give you a moment to freshen up after the store closes.”

“I’m to go to work?” I direct the question to Chief Wilmot, as I want to make sure her orders align with his.

Yet it is Lady Marchmont who answers me. “Yes, it would draw more attention to you if you do not. You are to act as if you have nothing to hide and nothing out of the ordinary is happening. We’ll have people discreetly watching you, of course, to make sure you’re safe.”

“Who?”

She offers a tiny smile. So tiny I detect it in her eyes rather than in her lips. “If we do our job right, you’ll never know.” She steps to the door and looks around my room once more. “You’ve done a lovely job with this space. You’ve made it truly a home.” I catch a hint of regret and sorrow in her voice. “Until this evening.”

Chief Wilmot follows her down the stairs.

I grab a sweater and follow them myself, to get off to work—as if nothing unusual is happening and this is another regular day.

The car sweeps to the right and makes a large circle before stopping directly at Marchcourt’s front door. I’m barely assisted out of the Rolls-Royce before the door opens and Lady Marchmont herself walks towards me, arms outstretched.

“I’m glad you’re finally here. What a long day of waiting, yes?” she intones, as if I am an equal and this is a dinner party. She loops her arm within mine and she leads us both towards the house. As we step through the door, she whispers close to my ear, “Courage now.”

I falter but catch my footing as she ushers me from a grand hall entrance into a library just to the right of the front door.

It’s a magnificent space, and despite all that’s ahead of me, I can’t help but pause to take it in. The walls are wood-paneled but lined, for the most part, from the floor to the ceiling twenty feet above with books, books, and more books. There is a ladder on each wall to climb to the top, and three French doors span the length of the room, letting in the last of the day’s light and providing a wonderful view of the garden beyond. The furniture is plush, some brocade, some velvet, all in shades of pink, spanning the color from the palest blush to the deepest rich fuchsia. An Aubusson carpet—I’ve seen them in magazines—covers the entire floor except perhaps two feet along the room’s border. A huge urn of radiantly blue hydrangeas sit on a round table in the heart of the room.

Once my eyes have swept the space, they land on the few people standing near the fireplace, which is big enough for at least two of them to step inside, if not for the roaring fire within.

Two men and a woman stand.

Lady Marchmont walks me over with her free arm outstretched. “Mr. Skardon and Mr. Serpell, I believe you have met Miss Brown. Gemma, let me introduce you to Miss Millicent Bagot.”

I take in each with a nod but no words. We are all assessing one another, and I wonder who’s in charge.

Lady Marchmont, of course.

Once we sit she simply states, “It’s time to get everything out into the open.” She turns to Miss Bagot. “Millicent, I say you deserve to start the first round.”

Miss Bagot, a stout woman with ash-blond hair pulled back into a tight bun, nods to Lady Marchmont, then faces me. Her questions are broad, almost as if she’s laying a foundation. She basically asks me for my story. And once I’ve been through my relationship with Ursula, from our first meeting over candy sticks in the store to our last conversation in my rooms, she simply says, “Tell me again.”

I talk for hours—at least that’s how it feels. But I do know it’s objectively a long time because at some point Miss Bagot gestures for me to pause as a few of Lady Marchmont’s servants fill the round table with a buffet. We serve ourselves, sit with trays upon our laps, and Miss Bagot motions for me to begin once again while we eat our supper. I only pause again when the servants return to clear the food away.

I tell of every meeting, baking lesson, interaction, story, and conversation. I tell of the gramophone, going to the cellar, following Ursula to Bloxham, and the tree. I slip a copy of the numbers from my pocket and hand it to Miss Bagot. I tell of the house in Kidlington, sneaking in the back, the papers, getting hit over the head and shoved into the closet. I tell of how I noted the papers gone and the fire dying out when Peggy hauled me out. I tell of remembering the papers, briefly examining them, but understanding nothing. I tell of Grant Ridley and how I found the garage in Clapham. And I tell of Ursula coming to my room, then following her out onto the street and watching the shed blow up behind The Firs. I do not tell of the favor she asked of me.

Miss Bagot holds up the scrap of paper. “It was sharp of you to copy the numbers.”

“She said it was a coded message to start plans to get her out.” I turn to Lady Marchmont, recalling that was the day we met at Blenheim Palace. “I’m sorry I don’t have the paper that wrapped the lamb shoulder anymore. It was beginning to smell, but I copied those numbers too.”