The line went dead with a sharp, mechanical click.
In a cramped attic apartment overlooking the rooftops of the Latin Quarter, Margot LeClerc—known to the underground as Guinevere—slowly lowered the receiver. She was not alone. Sitting across from her was a girl with a fierce, spirited fire in her eyes, wearing a tattered newsboy cap and oversized wool coat. Though she looked barely twenty-three, she carried the weary weight of a woman who had seen the front lines of a collapsing Republic.
"Nightingale," the girl whispered, using Margot’s secondary handle. "Is there word? Did Lancelot find the Canary?"
Margot nodded, her face pale under the dim yellow light of a single bulb. Her eyes were rimmed with red, a rare sign of vulnerability from the SOE’s most lethal operative. "The Sparrow,"
