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And what did Emmie have? A mother who cared for everyone but her. A father who ignored her. A friend who wasn’t much of a friend at all.

There was no point in going over it again and again, Kate told herself. She’d finish her errands, get back to Grécourt as soon as Mrs. Barrett and the rail system would allow, and do her best to make up for the damage she’d done. In the meantime, she had fruit trees and chickens to acquire.

Florence had told her to see the national nurseries about fruit trees, the next step in the grand replanting project.

A very nice lieutenant received Kate cordially, offered her coffee, showed her their survey of the area, and told her it couldn’t be done.

“Why not? Is it the cost?” He’d shown her their maps of the region, estimating that to replace the fruit trees destroyed by the Germans in their villages would cost somewhere between six and seven thousand dollars. It was a sum that made Kate’s stomach clench, but if there was one thing that she had learned in helping to run the Unit, it was that sums that had seemed unthinkable to her were well within the reach of Smith’s alumnae.

“You are too near the front.” The lieutenant shrugged, an entirely French sort of shrug that Kate had learned translated to something in between c’est la guerre and why are you bothering me, you mad American? “It is too expensive to do the work twice. If we planted now, the trees might be destroyed by shells. It is not worth the risk.”

Nothing Kate could say would budge him.

If she couldn’t get Florence trees, she could at least find her chickens. The Marquise de Noailles, who had found them their goats, had provided Florence with the address of an official she swore could help them acquire poultry.

“As many as you can get,” Florence had told Kate. “I could sell three or four hundred if I could get them. They all need them so.”

Which brought Kate to a very grand marble anteroom in a very grand marble ministry waiting to see a very grand officer who only gave audiences on Saturday afternoons and Wednesday mornings.

The assistant came out of the inner office and bowed to Kate. “Monsieur le General will see you now.”

Kate straightened her hat (which had, in fact, been lightly chewed by Minerva; she’d been hoping people wouldn’t notice) and tried to look like someone who was regularly granted special audiences by important military officials.

This office was the grandest of the many offices through which Kate had processed today. The desk was roughly the size of the SS Rochambeau and the man who sat behind it was wearing a dazzling array of medals. He’d been so decorated that his medals had medals.

Kate put her best rubber boot forward. “Thank you so much for being willing to see me. I’m only in Paris for another week.”

The general rose in greeting. “We have heard of your good work in Grécourt, Mademoiselle”—he was very good; it took him only a second to consult her card—“Mademoiselle Moran. How may I be of assistance?”

“I’ve come about the chickens,” said Kate succinctly.

“Chickens?” he asked.

Perhaps that had been a bit too succinct. “Madame la Marquise thought you might be able to tell us where we could buy chickens for our villagers.”

“I would be delighted to be able to oblige you, but . . .”

Kate hadn’t spent the past six months dealing with reluctant bureaucrats in Amiens and Noyon without learning that they always said that. There was always the but. The trick was getting in there before they could start making excuses.

“I know they’re very scarce right now,” said Kate, quickly running through all possible answers to all possible objections, “but we promise, they will be put to the best possible use. There’s no need to worry about the cost; we have the money to pay for them. And there won’t be any bother with shipping. I will convey any chickens we might acquire personally to Grécourt.”

The general’s mustache twitched in amusement. “You are, I see, a woman of great resources. And it breaks my heart to be unable to be of assistance, but, you see, I know nothing about chickens.”

“But the marquise said . . .”

“Madame la Marquise, I fear, has mistaken one fowl for another. My province,” said the general, unlocking a cabinet and proudly producing a brass bird, “is the carrier pigeon.”

“The carrier pigeon,” said Kate.

“A most noble bird, the pigeon,” said the general, patting his bronze pet.

Kate was fairly sure that most of the statues in Central Park might feel otherwise but refrained from saying so. “So you really know nothing about where I might find chickens?”

“Dommage,” said the general. “Now about the pigeon . . .”

The general waxed eloquent on the properties of pigeons and their use in warfare from the ancient Romans to the present. Kate managed to control herself throughout the recitation, thank the general kindly, apologize again for her mistake, and make it all the way out of the office, through the anteroom, and into the hall before covering her mouth with her handkerchief and giving way to a burst of hysterical laughter.

She had spent a whole day wrangling passes and arguing with petty officials to hear a history of the pigeon.