One

Ava

There was nothing Ava Harper loved more than the smell of old books. The musty scent of aging paper and stale ink took one on a journey through candlelit rooms of manors set amid verdant hills or ancient castles with turrets that stretched up to the vast, unknown heavens. These were tomes once cradled in the spread palms of forefathers, pored over by scholars, devoured by students with a rapacious appetite for learning. In those fragrant, yellowed pages were stories of the past and eternal knowledge.

It was a fortunate thing indeed she was offered a job in the Rare Book Room at the Library of Congress where the archaic aroma of history was forever present.

She strode through the middle of three arches to where the neat rows of tables ran parallel to one another and carefully gathered a stack of rare books in her arms. They were different sizes and weights, their covers worn and pages uneven at the edges, and yet somehow the pile seemed to fit together like the perfect puzzle. Regardless of the patron who left them after having requested far more than was necessary for an afternoon's perusal.

Their eyes were bigger than their brains. It was what her brother, Daniel, had once proclaimed after Ava groused about the common phenomena—one she herself had been guilty of—when he was home on leave.

Ever since, the phrase ran through her thoughts on each encounter of an abandoned collection. Not that it was the fault of the patron. The philosophical greats of old wouldn't be able to glean that much information in an afternoon. But she liked the expression regardless and how it always made her picture Daniel's laughing gaze as he said it.

They'd both inherited their mother's moss green eyes, though Ava's never managed to achieve that same sparkle of mirth so characteristic of her older brother.

A glance at her watch confirmed it was almost noon. A knot tightened in her stomach as she recalled her brief chat with Mr. MacLeish earlier that day. A meeting with the Librarian of Congress was no regular occurrence, especially when it was followed by the scrawl of an address on a slip of paper and the promise of a new opportunity that would suit her.

Whatever it was, she doubted it would fit her better than her position in the Rare Book Room. She absorbed lessons from these ancient texts, which she squeezed out at whim to aid patrons unearth sought-after information. What could possibly appeal to her more?

Ava approached the last table at the right and gently closed La Maison Reglée, the worn leather cover smooth as butter beneath her fingertips. The seventeenth century book was one of the many gastronomic texts donated with the Katherine Golden Bitting collection. She had been a marvel of a woman who utilized her knowledge in her roles at the Department of Agriculture and the American Canners Association.

Every book had a story and Ava was their keeper. To leave her place there would be like abandoning children.

Robert floated in on his pretentious cloud and surveyed the room with a critical eye. She clicked off the table light the patron left on lest she be subjected to the sardonic flattening of her coworker's lips.

He held out his hand for La Maison Reglée, a look of irritation flickering over his face.

"I'll put it away." Ava hugged it to her chest. After all, he didn't even read French. He couldn't appreciate it as she did.

She returned the tome to its collection, the family reunited once more, and left the opulence of the library. The crisp spring DC air embraced her as she caught the streetcar toward the address printed in the Librarian of Congress's own hand.

Ava arrived at 2430 E Street, NW ten minutes before her appointment, which turned out to be beneficial considering the hoops she had to jump through to enter. A stern man, whose expression did not alter through their exchange, confronted her at a guardhouse upon entry. Apparently, he had no more understanding of the meeting than she.

Once finally allowed in, she followed a path toward a large white-columned building.

Ava snapped the lid on her overactive imagination lest it get the better of her—which it often did—and forced herself onward. After being led through an open entryway and down a hall, she was left to sit in an office possessing no more than a desk and two hardbacked wooden chairs. They made the seats in the Rare Book Room seem comfortable by comparison. Clearly it was a place made only for interviews.

But for what?

Ava glanced at her watch. Whoever she was supposed to meet was ten minutes late. A pang of regret resonated through her at having left her book sitting on her dresser at home.

She had only recently started Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca and was immediately drawn in to the thrill of a young woman swept into an unexpected romance. Ava's bookmark rested temptingly upon the newly married couple's entrance to Manderley, the estate in Cornwall.

The door to the office flew open and a man whisked in wearing a gray, efficient Victory suit—single breasted with narrow lapels and absent any cuffs or pocket flaps—fashioned with as little fabric as was possible. He settled behind the desk. "I'm Charles Edmunds, secretary to General William Donovan. You're Ava Harper?"

The only name familiar of the three was her own. "I am."

He opened a file, sifted through a few papers, and handed her a stack. "Sign these."

"What are they?" She skimmed over the pages and was met with legal jargon.

"Confidentiality agreements."

"I won't sign anything I haven't read fully." She lifted the pile.

The text was drier than the content of some of the more lackluster rare books at the Library of Congress. Regardless, she scoured every word while Mr. Edmunds glared irritably at her, as if he could will her to sign with his eyes. He couldn't, of course. She waited ten minutes for his arrival; he could wait while she saw what she was getting herself into.

Everything indicated she would not share what was discussed in the room about her potential job opportunity. It was nothing all too damning and so she signed, much to the great, exhaling impatience of Mr. Edmunds.

"You speak German and French." He peered at her over a pair of black-rimmed glasses, his brown eyes probing.

"My father was something of a linguist. I couldn't help but pick them up." A visceral ache stabbed at her chest as a memory surfaced from years ago—her father switching to German in his excitement for an upcoming trip with her mother for their twenty-year anniversary. That trip. The one from which her parents had never returned.

"And you've worked with photographing microfilm." Mr. Edmunds lifted his brows.

A frown of uncertainty tugged at her lips. When she first started at the Library of Congress, her duties had been more in the area of archival than a typical librarian role as she microfilmed a series of old newspapers that time was slowly eroding. "I have, yes."

"Your government needs you," he stated in a matter-of-fact manner that brooked no argument. "You are invited to join the Office of Strategic Services—the OSS—under the information gathering program called the Interdepartmental Committee for the Acquisition of Foreign Publications."

Her mind spun around to make sense of what he'd just said, but her lips flew open to offer her knee-jerk opinion. "That's quite the mouthful."

"IDC for short," he replied without hesitation or humor. "It's a covert operation obtaining information from newspapers and texts in neutral territories to help us gather intel on the Nazis."

"Would I require training?" she asked, unsure how knowing German equipped her to spy on them.

"You have all the training you need as I understand it." He began to reassemble the file in front of him. "You would go to Lisbon."

"In Portugal?"

He paused. "It is the only Lisbon of which I am aware, yes."

No doubt she would have to get there by plane. A shiver threatened to squeeze down her spine, but she repressed it. "Why am I being recommended for this?"

"Your ability to speak French and German." Mr. Edmunds held up his forefinger. "You know how to use microfilm." He ticked off another finger. "Fred Kilgour recommends your keen intellect." There went another finger.

That was a name she recognized.

She aided Fred the prior year when he was microfilming foreign publications for the Harvard University Library. After the months she'd spent doing as much for the Library of Congress, the process had been easy to share, and he had been a quick learner.

"And you're pretty." Mr. Edmunds sat back in his chair, the final point made.

The compliment was as unwarranted in such a setting as it was unwelcome. "What does my appearance have to do with any of this?"

He lifted a shoulder. "Beauties like yourself can get what they want when they want it. Except when you scowl like that." He nodded his chin up. "You should smile more, Dollface."

That was about enough.

"I did not graduate top of my class from Pratt and obtain a much sought-after position at the Library of Congress to be called ‘Dollface.'" She pushed up to standing.

"And you've got steel in that spine, Miss Harper." Mr. Edmunds ticked the last finger.

She opened her mouth to retort, but he continued. "We need this information so we best know how to fight the Krauts. The sooner we have these details, the sooner this war can be over."

She remained where she stood to listen a little longer. No doubt he knew she would.

"You have a brother," he went on. "Daniel Harper, staff sergeant of C Company in Second Battalion, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, in the 101st Airborne Division."

The Airborne Division. Her brother had run toward the fear of airplanes despite her swearing off them.

"That's correct," she said tightly. Daniel would never have been in the Army were it not for her. He would be an engineer, the way he'd always wanted.

Mr. Edmunds took off his glasses and met her gaze with his small, naked eyes. "Don't you want him to come home sooner?"

It was a dirty question meant to slice deep.

And it worked.

The longer the war continued, the greater Daniel's risk of being killed or wounded.

She'd done everything she could to offer aid. When the ration was only voluntary, she had complied long before it became law. She gave blood every few months, as soon as she was cleared to do so again. Rather than dance and drink at the Elk Club like her roommates, Ava spent all her spare time in the Production Corps with the Red Cross, repairing uniforms, rolling bandages, and doing whatever was asked of her to help their men abroad.

She even wore red lipstick on a regular basis, springing for the costly tube of Elizabeth Arden's Victory Red, the civilian counterpart to the Montezuma Red servicewomen were issued. Ruby lips were a derisive biting of the thumb at Hitler's war on made-up women. And she would do anything to bite her thumb at that tyrant.

Likely Mr. Edmunds was aware of all this.

"You will be doing genuine work in Lisbon that can help bring your brother and all our boys home." Mr. Edmunds got to his feet and held out his hand, a salesman with a silver tongue, ready to seal the deal. "Are you in?"

Ava looked at his hand. His fingers were stubby and thick, his nails short and well-manicured.

"I would have to go on an airplane, I'm assuming."

"You wouldn't have to jump out." He winked.

Her greatest fear realized.

But Daniel had done far more for her.

It was a single plane ride to get to Lisbon. One measly takeoff and landing with a lot of airtime in between. The bottoms of her feet tingled, and a nauseous swirl dipped in her belly.

This was by far the least she could do to help him as well as every other US service member. Not just the men, but also the women whose roles were often equally as dangerous.

She lifted her chin, leveling her own stare right back. "Don't ever call me ‘Dollface' again."

"You got it, Miss Harper," he replied.

She extended her hand toward him and clasped his with a firm grip, the way her father had taught her. "I'm in."

He grinned. "Welcome aboard."

A week later, a black Buick came to collect Ava at 8:00 a.m. sharp from the apartment she shared with two others in Naylor Gardens. The women had thrown something of a goodbye party for her despite how little they knew one another, using the last of their sugar rations to bake her a cake with sunshine yellow rosettes clustered at the center. It was a kind gesture.

She was grateful to know they wouldn't be entirely out of sorts by her abrupt departure. In a city where housing was scarce, they already had someone lined up to take her room the next day—another government girl in the quintessential white rayon shirt with a pressed convertible collar.

Leaving the Library of Congress had been far less easy. Ava had cared for those books like they were an extension of herself, coddling and tending to them, ensuring they were loved and cherished. She'd grown accustomed to the beauty of the library, to the feast of learning at her fingertips daily. In the three short years she had been there, she had become a fount of information, ready to help anyone find anything.

She'd always been proud of how necessary she felt.

Now, she would be venturing into unknown territory, her knowledge limited to a weeklong stint of frenzied research. At least with what she had managed to obtain about Lisbon, she discovered the importance of packing several hats, which she would have easily left behind otherwise. Being seen in public in Portugal without one would label her as a prostitute.

While she was at it, she used the last of her number 17 ration stamps for a new pair of pumps. With only four color options, she chose black over brown, town brown or army russet. She wore those shoes now with a simple green A-line wraparound skirt and a white-and-green rayon blouse.

With the busywork over, all that remained was the arduous drive to the airport. A hive of bees seemed to buzz around in Ava's empty stomach. She'd been far too nervous to bother eating anything that morning.

"Would you like to see the Mall before you go?" The driver met her gaze in the mirror. "The cherry blossoms just bloomed, and we have time."

The beauty of those trees became diminished to the nation after the horrific attack on Pearl Harbor. Four had been cut down by vandals, and many demanded that Japan's gesture of goodwill nearly thirty years prior should all be destroyed.

In the excitement of preparing to depart for her new role, Ava had not realized the cherry trees had blossomed. Ordinarily, it was her favorite time in DC even though the accompanying festival had ground to a halt in light of conservation efforts for the war.

"I would," she replied, grateful for his consideration, and a few minutes more reprieve from her dreaded flight. "Thank you."

The driver turned left and snaked along at the 35 miles per hour enforced speed limit; Victory Speed to conserve gas. At last, the Mall came into view. It didn't inspire awe as it once did, its pristine appearance marred by rows of temporary housing units and offices for government girls with antiaircraft guns sprinkled around the monuments.

But the cherry trees were laden with pink petals so heavy that they sifted away to float in the air and dance across the water of the Tidal Basin like thick, soft snowflakes. How Ava loved to stroll down the path beneath those trees, letting the flowers whisper across her cheeks as they tumbled gracefully downward on an unseen breeze.

It was precisely the distraction she had needed to pull her thoughts from the upcoming plane ride and the trepidation of facing a place she knew so little of. Truly, she wasn't sure which was worse.

At least, not until she joined the line on the runway to board and her nerves vibrated to an insistent hum.

Flying on the plane was far, far worse.