Grace stared at her hastily transcribed message. If she waited long enough, perhaps the letters would rearrange themselves into words that made sense, that didn’t make her feel like she was free-falling.
The Vespers had the altarpiece. They knew she was being recruited to rescue it. And so they’d sent one of their agents to kill her.
It was one thing to fight for her life on a mission, when she’d knowingly rushed headlong into danger. But here? At school? She grabbed on to the desk to steady herself as her knees began to tremble.
Grace stuffed the telegram into her pocket and turned back toward the window. She tried to hurry, but her legs felt like they were made of lead. She took a deep breath, coughing as a cloud of French perfume filled her lungs.
“Good evening.” Grace spun around quickly, and slipped on the edge of the thin carpet, landing with a hard thud on the floor. She rolled over and looked up.
Mlle Hubert was leaning against the door, one hand resting casually on her hip.
The other holding a knife.
“I cannot decide whether you are much more intelligent than I supposed, or just much — what is the word? — more nose? Nosier.” She was looking at Grace with a combination of fascination and disgust. “But of course, that is what you Madrigals do.”
Grace rose shakily to her feet, cursing herself for not making it to the window in time. This is what happened when you stopped training. “So you’re here to kill me?” Grace asked, forcing her voice to assume a slightly condescending tone. She gave Mlle Hubert the same smile she’d seen her cousin Princess Elizabeth give young men who tried to impress her at royal gatherings. “They’ll find out. And I think you’ll find the éclairs in federal prison aren’t quite up to your standard.”
Mlle Hubert snorted. “That will not be a problem.” She held the knife up in the air so it glinted faintly in the moonlight. “Disposing of the body is the easy part.” She tilted the weapon to the side, as if it were a bracelet she was considering in a shop. “But that might not be necessary, if you decide to be cooperative.” She turned to Grace. “What do you know about the Ghent altarpiece?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
Mlle Hubert raised an eyebrow. “Then why was that teacher writing to you about it?”
Grace’s stomach twisted at the thought of the vile woman reading her letter, but she kept her face impassive. “He didn’t say anything about the altarpiece.”
“The actual name was censored, of course,” Mlle Hubert said, rolling her eyes. “But I know that is the work he was referring to. That is what he was sent to Germany to find.” She smirked. “That is why we had to kill him.”
Grace felt her heart speed up. “The Germans killed him.”
“The order came from a Vesper officer.”
“You’re working with the Nazis?” Grace spat.
Mlle Hubert smiled. “They are very good at carrying out orders. I think it only took one bullet to kill poor Mr. Blythe.”
It was as if someone had ignited a set of rockets attached to Grace’s feet. She launched herself at Mlle Hubert, wrestling her to the floor. She rolled on top of her and was about to deliver another blow when she felt something cold and sharp pressed against her neck. Grace lowered her eyes slowly. Mlle Hubert had the point of the knife digging into her throat. “Get up,” she said icily.
Grace hesitated, and her body grew rigid. She considered trying to knock the knife out of Mlle Hubert’s hand but, as she tensed her shoulder to make her move, the blade went deeper. Grace yelped.
“Quiet!” Mlle Hubert hissed. “Get up, now.”
She rose shakily to her feet and took a few steps back toward the door, but Mlle Hubert had risen quickly and was already standing in front of her, pressing the edge of the knife against the side of Grace’s neck.
“I am only going to ask you once more. What do you know about the altarpiece?”
Grace’s mind began to race as she desperately tried to recall everything her mother had told her about the “Lamb.” “There are hidden Hebrew letters on one of the figures’ hats,” she said quickly, feeling the blade rise and fall as she spoke.
Mlle Hubert pressed the knife deeper. “Everyone knows that.”
Grace’s heart was pounding, urging her brain to work faster. “One of the panels is a reproduction.”
“I know. We stole the original.” She pushed on the blade even harder.
“Van Eyck was a secret agent!” Grace gagged, fighting to speak as the knife pressed against her windpipe. That was something she remembered her mother telling her. “He was sent . . . by the Duke of Burgundy . . . to spy on other courts.”
“Yes,” Mlle Hubert snapped. “Which is why we want to know what secret information he hid in the paintings.” She lowered the knife and stepped to the side.
Grace gasped and brought her hand to her neck, wiping away the blood that had begun to trickle down toward her collar.
“I am done wasting my time,” Mlle Hubert said. “Max!” she shouted. A figure appeared in the doorway. An enormous man wearing a long coat . . . and holding a gun.
“Miss Cahill is not in the mood for conversation. Let us make sure she never has to make small talk again.”
The man raised his arm so the barrel of the gun pointed right between Grace’s eyes.
Grace leaped to the side the same moment the gun exploded. A bullet ricocheted off the wall next to Grace’s left ear, filling her head with a nauseating ring. She hurtled toward the window, and hoisted herself onto the ledge. There was another crack as a bullet hit the panes, showering Grace with tiny shards of broken glass. There was no time to climb down. She’d have to jump.
Grace twisted around so her feet were pointed toward the ground, took a quick breath, and let go, her arms flailing as she grasped at the empty night air.
She hit the ground with a thud and rolled a few feet. Everything hurt. But before she could assess the specific damage, the gunshots began again. Grace began crawling away from the building, shrieking as a bullet flew right past her cheek. The shooting stopped, and Grace knew that Mlle Hubert and the other Vesper were on their way downstairs. She had to get away. Grace rose to her feet, gasping as pain shot up her left leg.
“Help!” she screamed. “Somebody!”
She knew the dorms were too far away for anyone there to hear her, but there had to be someone around. A janitor. A teacher returning from a late night out. Anyone.
“Help!” she shouted again. But there was no answer. Her desperate scream was simply absorbed by the silence of the night.
She stumbled down the path toward the staff garage, gasping at the pain. Before she gave up training, she used to “borrow” the groundskeeper’s motorcycle for stomach-churning rides down twisty backcountry lanes. She prayed that it was still there.
She could hear footsteps behind her. Grace frantically grabbed the dead bolt and threw open the wooden doors. The garage was mostly empty, but she felt a wave of joy rush over her as she spotted the caretaker’s motorcycle leaning against the wall — just where she’d found it the last time she’d taken it.
Balancing on her uninjured right leg, Grace flung herself into the seat, stuck the key into the ignition, and kicked the motor over to start. The engine rumbled to life. She pressed the gas, shooting out of the garage like a rocket.
Mlle Hubert and her assassin were running down the path toward her.
“Kill her!” her teacher screamed, as Grace picked up speed.
The man raised his gun, but Grace leaned forward, hugging the motorcycle as the bullets flew over her back.
“The tires, you idiot,” Mlle Hubert shrieked. But it was too late. Grace sped past them, creating a rush of wind that blew Mlle Hubert’s scarf over her face. The front gate was open slightly. The Vesper must not have locked it when he sneaked into the school. Grace switched into a higher gear as she flew through the narrow gap and onto the road.
“Woo-hoo!” she shouted as she raced down the middle of the e
mpty street, her hair streaming behind her.
It didn’t matter that, with every bump, her left ankle screamed in protest.
She was alive.
It was almost dawn by the time Grace coasted into the Boston Navy Yard. Set against the pink and orange sky, the enormous warships looked like they were emerging from another world. Grace shivered as she imagined them being forged by giants, sent to Earth to battle the evil that threatened to destroy it.
It had been foolish to ignore all those letters from the woman at the Louvre. No, not just foolish. Selfish. Reckless. And fatal. If she’d only acted earlier, perhaps she could have found the altarpiece. Mr. Blythe might have never been sent to Germany. He would never have been struck by a Vesper bullet.
It had been ridiculous to think that she could remove herself from the Clue hunt, separate herself from the Cahills’ centuries-old feud with a ruthless enemy. Growing up, she had always associated the word Vesper with evil, but it had been an abstract evil — like the villain in a fairy tale. Over the past few years, Grace, along with the rest of the world, had seen real evil. Or at least they’d heard about it, listening to seasoned radio announcers who couldn’t mask the horror in their voices as they reported on Nazi atrocities. They’d read about it, in newspaper articles about what soldiers discovered after they liberated the concentration camps.
A photograph of the prisoners flashed through her mind. The worn faces that looked like all life had been drained out of them, leaving hollow eyes and sunken cheeks like dry riverbeds after a drought. The thought of the perpetrators made Grace physically ill.
They were who the Vespers had chosen to do their dirty work?
She didn’t know what the Vespers wanted, but until they found it, innocent people would continue to die.
Unless the Cahills destroyed them first.
Commercial steam liners weren’t crossing the Atlantic. The only way to Europe was aboard a military ship or plane, and they didn’t sell tickets.
Grace knew what she had to do.
She leaned the motorcycle against a wall and covered it with a dirty tarp. Then, with a glance over her shoulder, she darted to the edge of a dock where navy workers were loading supplies onto one of the ships.
Grace slipped into the narrow space between the tall columns of crates and held on tight as the platform was hauled into the air.
A few minutes later, there was a loud bang, and everything went dark as the crate was loaded into what she assumed was the hull of the ship.
It was going to be a very, very long trip to France.
The first time Grace had crossed the Atlantic, it had been on a luxury ocean liner, where she’d spent the afternoons sipping tea in the parlor, and the evenings listening to a jazz trio play under a canopy of stars.
The stars probably hadn’t changed, but she was in no position to marvel at them.
Grace wasn’t even sure how long she spent in the cargo hold. There weren’t any windows, so she couldn’t keep track of the sunrises, and there wasn’t enough light for her to read her watch. For three or four days, she huddled on the cold floor, nibbling at the biscuits she’d unearthed from one of the crates, drinking from a fire hose she’d found coiled up in a corner.
If Beatrice could only see me now, she thought grimly, imagining what her snooty older sister would say about these accommodations. Beatrice would never stow away on a navy ship. She’d made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with their family’s secrets.
But Grace knew that was no longer an option for her. The Cahills had an obligation to do whatever they could to keep innocent people safe from the Vespers.
Her next stop would be the Louvre in Paris. She’d find out why that woman, Rose Valland, had needed her help, and what her plan was for retrieving the altarpiece.
She only hoped it wasn’t too late.
Grace awoke from her nap with a jolt as the crates rattled around her. In the distance, she could make out the sound of men shouting, and felt a current of excitement travel down her aching limbs. They had arrived in Normandy, in northern France.
Grace took a few shaky steps forward and peered around a stack of metal containers. She had to figure out how to get off the ship without being spotted. Even seventeen-year-old girls couldn’t get away with sneaking aboard a US Navy ship during wartime. She’d be lucky if she weren’t shot on sight.
She crept down a deserted corridor lined with small, round windows filled with hazy sky and blue-gray water. A strange mix of awe and sadness churned her stomach as she saw the ships scattered along the coast. It was the same beach the forces had landed on nearly a year ago on D-Day, the massive offensive that had allowed the Allies to gain control of crucial territory in northern France. She remembered the footage from the newsreels. The men storming up from the waves by the thousands, barreling into enemy fire. A staggering number of lives had been lost, but their sacrifice had not been in vain. The Germans had retreated.
Now it was Grace’s turn — to make sure Mr. Blythe’s sacrifice hadn’t been in vain.
She reached the end of the corridor and pressed her ear against a metal door. When she was sure no one was on the other side, Grace turned the handle and stepped into the light. She winced and held her hand up to her forehead to shield her eyes.
“Hey!” a man’s voice shouted.
Grace jumped like she’d been electrocuted.
“What in God’s name are you doing?”
Still half-blind, Grace spun around and started running.
“Come back here!”
Grace sprinted with all her might, but she was weak and woozy from her days in the cargo hold.
“Intruder!”
The thud of footsteps behind her exploded into a chorus of stomping feet and shouting voices.
Up ahead, there was a gap in the railing where a ramp met the deck. She took a sharp right and tore down the slippery incline.
“I got her!”
Grace felt fingers graze against her arm. She gasped and tried to pick up speed, but she had nothing left.
She was about halfway down the ramp, and the water loomed below her. Was it a twenty-foot drop? Thirty?
With her legs about to give out, Grace used her last ounce of strength to hurl herself over the railing. She forced her burning lungs to take one final gulp of air before her feet hit the water, and she plunged into the murky darkness.
Nine hours later, Grace was in the most beautiful city in the world, but neither the Eiffel Tower nor Notre Dame held any interest for her. All Grace could think about was how much her feet ached and how ridiculous she must look trudging across Paris in mud-splattered clothes that reeked of gasoline and salt water.
However, as she walked along the Seine toward the Louvre, Grace felt her black mood dissipating in the afternoon sunshine. She hadn’t been in Paris during the German occupation, but it was clear that the city was reveling in its freedom — delighting in its first spring since the liberation. The sound of children laughing danced down the cobble-stoned streets, young women in brightly colored clothes shot coquettish glances at the soldiers resting in the grass, and the sidewalk cafés buzzed with animated chatter.
It was hard to believe that, only a short time ago, German tanks had patrolled the streets and banners emblazoned with swastikas adorned many of the buildings. Paris was living proof that the tide of war had turned: The Germans were retreating.
Grace’s stomach rumbled as she passed a pâtisserie with a window full of pastel-colored macaroons, but now wasn’t the time to stop for a snack. As she crossed the Pont des Arts and the Louvre came into view, Grace forgot about her stomach. She’d been to Paris a number of times growing up, but was always astonished by the size, beauty, and grandeur of the magnificent Renaissance palace. Its three enormous wings surrounded a vast courtyard that Grace couldn’t look at without imagining it full of carriages and ladies with powdered wigs.
Grace dusted off her dirty skirt as best she could before marching into the entrance hall.
She wasn’t in the ideal outfit for requesting an interview with one of the curators, but it would have to do. She raised her chin just like she’d seen her mother do before voicing her opinion to one of the many ambassadors who used to come to their house for dinner.
Grace walked toward the information desk, the clack of her shoes echoing throughout the nearly empty vestibule. The woman behind the desk was filing her nails. When she heard Grace enter, she set the emery board down and looked up in surprise, but her expression quickly transformed into disgust.
“Est-ce que je vous aide?” she said, wrinkling her nose.
Grace cleared her throat. “Bonjour. Je voudrais un rendez-vous avec Madame Valland.”
The receptionist stared at Grace as if she’d requested an audience with the president. “You are American, no?” Grace nodded. “Did you swim here?”
Grace raised her chin. “Yes. The North Atlantic is lovely this time of year. Especially now that the Germans have retreated. You’re welcome, by the way.”
The woman sniffed. “And what is your business with Madame Valland?”
“It’s private and confidential.”
“Well, you will have to make an appointment. Madame Valland is very busy.”
“I assure you, she’s been expecting me.”
The receptionist raised an eyebrow. “Rose Valland is the associate curator of the most famous museum in the world. She is far too busy to entertain American tourists . . . street urchins . . .” She waved her hand. “Whatever you are.”
Grace smiled benignly. “So busy that I imagine she doesn’t post her own letters.”
“I handle all of Madame Valland’s correspondence.”
“Then you are aware, no doubt, that she’s been writing to a Grace Cahill care of Miss Harper’s School in Massachusetts?”
She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I am Grace Cahill.”
The receptionist stared at her for a moment and stood up. “I see. In that case, I will show you to her office . . . mademoiselle.”
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