Page 64 of The Librarian Spy

He nodded, that grin notching higher. “Coffee?”

“Please,” she said stiffly.

This time he didn’t bother to conceal his chuckle as he pushed to his feet and ordered their beverages.

While he was gone, she opened her messenger bag to deposit the papers when she caught sight of Combat still resting within. She considered it for a moment and turned her attention back on James as he waited for their drinks.

The Allies all worked together, and though she hated to admit it, James was knowledgeable on many various topics. More so than Mike, she had discovered. And James was by far more approachable than Sims.

She pulled the single page of Combat from her bag and replaced it with the stack she’d obtained from Alfonso’s kiosk. The top flap of her messenger bag hung crooked despite her best efforts to cram everything in properly.

James peered at the French newspaper as he returned with their small cups of bica and dumped a generous helping of sugar into the dark liquid. “What’s this?”

“The latest edition.” She turned it toward him, then hesitated. “Do you read French?”

James inclined his head. “Mais oui.”

“Good.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Do you notice anything unusual about this piece?” She indicated the article on factory bombings.

He winced. “It could use a strong edit.”

She nodded. “Except that this particular newspaper is generally the most meticulous. I don’t think it’s an accident.”

“Then it probably isn’t.” James pinched the small handle of his mug and sipped the drink.

Ava let her shoulders sag forward. “That’s it, Watson?”

“You mean Sherlock, I presume.” He gave a haughty tilt of his head. “I dare say, I think I’d make a proper Sherlock. I’ve the accent and everything.”

“Watson was British too.”

James nodded toward her. “True, but may I mention that you aren’t British at all.”

“Fair point.” Ava poured a bit of sugar into her own cup and stirred. “So, what’s your theory?”

“It’s a coded message,” he said quietly. “Presumably from the Resistance.”

“There are fifty-eight displaced letters.” Ava glanced around the small café to ensure no one was within earshot. “I’ve tried to rearrange them every way I could think possible.”

James shook his head and lowered his voice to a whisper despite no one being nearby. “The Resistance uses a new poem every week. But I think you’re looking at this wrong, as it’s based on numbers.” He pulled the newspaper toward him once more. “The typo is in place of another letter. Take the letter that should be there and use the number from its location in the alphabet. Once you have the numbers listed and the poem code they used, you’ll have a way to deduce the message. See? The letters have their own system of decoding.”

Ava didn’t precisely see, but he did and that was what mattered. After all, she’d always understood literature and words far more than numbers and math. But none of his efforts would be effective without the correct poem.

“I can help, if you like,” James offered. “Especially if I’m with you in the mornings.” He gave her a grin that should have rankled her. But there was something hopelessly charming about the way his eyetooth was slightly crooked and the stalwart determination of his persistence.

She gave a dramatic sigh. “If you insist.”

“I do,” he replied without hesitation.

“Although I have no idea where to obtain the necessary poem from.” She lifted a brow. “Any suggestions, Sherlock?”

He smirked. “I’d presume the very source you collected this newspaper from will have what you need.”

Otto did not know which to use, but in the span it took Ava to help serve a meal—much to Ethan’s appreciation—he was able to find someone who knew the precise poem used for coding the week the paper was drafted.

“Mignonne allons voir si la rose” by Pierre de Ronsard.

The following morning, Ava waved James into her building and brought him up to her small apartment where they could talk without the risk of being overheard. It wasn’t until he was walking through her front door that she realized the intimacy of having him join her where she lived.