From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 40)

Today I saw Hope and Euphemia sit side by side. This is a rare event, now Hope has grown to womanhood and moved away from White Orchards to live in London. I do not doubt there is genuine affection between them, but it is constrained, for many reasons, of which I suspect I only know half. I find their estrangement difficult as I am as fond of them both, as much as if they were my own family. Or rather more so, as I have never particularly liked any of my family, with the exception of my late mother.

I first laid eyes on Euphemia when she was eighteen years old. Hope is now in her early twenties and the very image of her mother as I remember her then. When Hope was a child, I knew she resembled her mother more than her father in looks, which is a blessing! I could imagine that Euphemia might have looked just so as a child, but as Hope turned eighteen, I finally saw that she looked exactly like her mother in height, form and colouring. As she continues her journey into womanhood, it is as if time has turned backwards for me and I am seeing the younger Euphemia reborn in Hope.

Euphemia remains beautiful. At times her old spirit and passion for life comes alive in her eyes. Even working with her now, I see her fall back into her old ways - her quickness of thought, her humour, dark on occasion, but always beneath it a depth of concern for her fellow beings that I have never been able to attain. When occasion required, Euphemia could be as icy cold as necessity demanded, but by natural inclination, she is a compassionate and kind creature.

Hope has had all the advantages that Euphemia did not. She has been raised in a respectable, if small, upper class household. She was educated at home, and later at University, where she was privileged to hear some of the finest minds of our time speak. She has never been hindered by lack of funds, nor felt the need to sacrifice her own happiness for the sake of others. She has always been able to do as she chooses. Her family are open-minded enough to let her steer her own course. With such a beginning I could imagine that Euphemia would have blazed her way through the world, but her youth was much harder.

Hope is quiet, reserved, and her anger burns slowly. Her mother is impassioned and will argue with those she cares for with fury and fire, but she will forgive easily. Hope broods. She remembers and stores up all that has been cast against her. She hides it well and thinks even I do not see this side of her personality, but I know she bears grudges badly. She is an observer, a recorder of events and personalities. She is a planner and natural analyst. She keeps her thoughts and intentions close to her chest. I am one of the few people who can read her, and that is only because I helped make her what she is. But, I admit, by training her in observation and evasion throughout her childhood, I did not think to make such a silent, plotting, secretive, watcher of a creature. I am in equal parts concerned and proud- she makes a terrifying enemy for anyone.

Euphemia is an excellent operative. She can mask any and all of her emotions, but inside she remains driven by her passions. She thinks on her feet, acts and reacts with the courage of her convictions. She made an outstanding field agent. Now, as a desk bound one, she is insightful, intelligent, and knows better than anyone how to work with someone as difficult as me.

The greatest irony is that Hope, who would undoubtedly be far more suited to analysis, perhaps even the study of cyphers, must, due to her youth and circumstances, be a field agent in this war. It goes against her nature to react to circumstances, to think on her feet, but it’s what will be asked of her.

Between the two of them, they share a multitude of talents that, jointly harnessed, would be formidable. Unfortunately, the one person who might reconcile them, myself, has proved wholly unable to do so. It does not help that Hope suspects that, should she ever force me to pick a side, much as it would wound me, I would pick her mother’s.

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