Kate Quinn

e lingered inside our fragile bubble of happiness, the kind of happiness that sits on top of melancholy as easily as icing on a cake.

Beth nodded, chewing a thumbnail, her mind still tumbling among the blocks of Enigma. Was there ever anything more aptly named . . .

He was a puzzle, all right; her very own enigma in a park full of them.

That was when she decided she was done being Mabel. Mabel was young and dim and easily fooled. She was going to be Mab instead. Cool, imperious, untouchable Queen Mab.

Osla couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt the world could be borne simply because someone was holding her.

But he’s not just a prince, Osla thought. He’s my Philip.

She wanted to cook the prime minister a good soft-boiled egg and stand over him while he ate every bite; she wanted to tell him to have a long sleep and not worry about how bombe machines worked; she wanted to tell him they would do their jobs, never fear, so he should go home and get some rest before he dropped dead.

Yes,” she heard herself laugh. “I want a ring.”

“Bound to be a ruby somewhere in London that matches your lips.

Mab Gray, she thought. Mrs. Gray.

treason has no expiration date.