“And it’s the reason you’re here now,” he says. “So I’m glad you did it.”
He takes the towel and crouches, drying my legs, between my toes. As if I’m still something he treasures. Tears run down my face, watching him, and then he rises and wraps his arms around me.
“My mind works the way theirs did, Henri,” I whisper. “It’s cold and methodical, and killing made me feel...powerful.”
His lips press to my temple, and then my cheek. “You’re not going to scare me away, Sarah,” he says. “I know you. Killing might make you feel powerful, but it’s not your driving force, and even if it were, God help me, but I’d love you all the same. If you are soft and sweet and need protection, I will love you. And if you are a weapon capable of destroying people in ways I haven’t even dreamed of, I will love that version of you as well. Whatever it is you are, I want you and I wouldn’t change it.”
He holds me there, with the towel wrapped around me, until my tears have slowed.
“You’re shivering,” he says. “Come.” He pulls me to our room and tucks me into bed, wrapping the blankets around me, before undressing to slide in beside me.
He finds my hand and lifts my palm to his lips. “Tell me everything.”
Haltingly, with my head pressed to his chest, I do. I tell him about Katrin, and her suspicions that I was her descendant. About Luna Reilly, who tried to stop the guards while I just sat there in silence. I tell him about Mathilde and the babies, and how I swaddled dead infants and felt absolutely nothing as I did it.
I tell him that I thought of killing Yvette and Dr. Nadeau, that there was a time, before Cece was born, that I hoped she wouldn’t survive. And he listens, running a hand over my back the entire time, soothing me, even as I tell him things he should hate me for.
“But how does any of this make you related to Coron?” he finally asks when I’m done.
“Katrin... I think she knew what I was even before I did. She said something about it, the way I was able to think the way Coron did. She was one of the women he raped and she was pregnant when she left. I confronted my mother about everything when I got home and she admitted that Peter Stewart wasn’t my father.”
“Sharing Coron’s blood doesn’t make you what he is,” Henri says.
“In my case, it does. It felt like it went away, when Cecelia was born, but it’s back. I feel it every time we’re threatened. That ugly side of me wants to be set free.”
“That side of you might just turn out to be what saves the children’s lives if I’m not here,” he says, pushing my hair back. “Perhaps everything you’ve lived through was necessary to survive what’s to come. And I need you to survive. So please, never do what you did today. Don’t risk yourself like that.”
His lips brush mine, once and then twice, and his hand rests on my hip, pulling me closer. My mouth opens beneath his and I feel him respond to it, groaning as I arch against him, before he pulls back.
“I should let you rest,” he says, flinching. “After what happened today—”
I pull him on top of me. “Nothing happened today,” I reply. “And I’m not fragile.”
With a small shudder he pushes inside me, leaning over to find my mouth. I feel split open, mentally and physically. He knows the ugliest things in my soul and he loves me in spite of them. It is more than I could have hoped for, and it changes something between us.
Being with him tonight is more than love or lust.
For the first time ever, it feels holy.
38
SARAH
I wake the next day feeling sore, but in the best possible way. With the secrets between us finally gone, something that seemed impossible to improve upon is even better.
But our situation remains the same, possibly worse. Did that commander who visited yesterday tell anyone where he was going? Surely, the fact that they died two miles down the road will force someone to at least look at the farm. All day long my eyes flicker to the revolver on the high shelf in the kitchen, to the knives on the counter. Lucien knocks over a broom behind me and I jump.
“We can’t continue like this,” Henri says.
I shrug, as if my heart didn’t nearly shoot out of my chest from the sound of a broom falling. “I’m not sure we have a choice.”
“Unfortunately,” he sighs, “we do. I’ll stay through Christmas, and then I’m going to run Roche’s little errand.”
I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “Please. Don’t.”
“I’ll be gone two weeks, perhaps three, and then we’ll have everything we need. We’ll take the train to Marseilles and be on the next boat to England. Think of it, all of us together, where the children can run outside without fear.”
There’s a part of me that wants to believe him, that wants to fall into this pretty picture he’s creating. Already, I can imagine summer nights when the children catch fireflies in jars and swim, Henri and I watching them with our hands clasped, the worst behind us. I hunger for it in a way I can hardly even express.
But nothing that’s happened over the course of my life leads me to believe our happy ending could be so close at hand, or acquired so simply. If it were easy, Roche would be doing it himself.
* * *
By Christmas, Lucien and Charlotte are better. Cece is still sick, but she’s younger and more fragile, so it stands to reason she’d heal more slowly.
Though the holiday is not Charlotte’s and Lucien’s, they are part of our family now, so we get them a few gifts we managed to scrounge up, resolving to teach them about their own traditions when the war has passed and it’s safe again.
It's a struggle to remain cheerful all day, however. Tomorrow, Henri will leave for this mission of Roche’s. I can’t stop wondering if this might be the last Christmas we share, but I don’t want to ruin our time together with my sad thoughts.
Once the children are in bed, I curl up against him. Don’t talk about tomorrow. Don’t ruin this. “Tell me about our honeymoon,” I say.
“We’ll go to Greece,” he says. “After the war, when the world is finally safe again.”
“Will we take the children?” I ask.
He smirks. “Is that a serious question? Absolutely not. Think how awkward that would be, with you in bed the whole time.”
“The whole time?”
“Don’t worry,” he says, twisting a strand of my hair around his finger. “I’ll make sure you still have a lovely view of the sea from our room.”
“Ah, so only I will remain in bed?”
He laughs low. “I plan to exhaust you to the point that you won’t be able to leave. I’ll venture out to get you food and perhaps take a quick dip in the water, but nothing more.”
I grin. “Maybe I want to be the one to venture out for the food while you remain in bed.”
He pulls me above him. “Are you offering to do all the work, little thief?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave, smooth as silk. “I’m happy to agree. But first, perhaps, you should show me what that entails.”
I try to smile but it falters. “Please don’t do anything stupid on this mission.”
“Everything I do is brilliant,” he says with a cheeky grin, trying to make me laugh.
His ploy works but the laugh catches in my throat and becomes a sob. I am already thinking of last summer, of those months when I didn’t know if he was alive, the terror of them. We got lucky once. Will we get lucky again?
His lips press to my head. “Don’t cry. In two months, we’ll be sitting at our cottage in the British countryside and this will all be behind us. Have faith, little thief. I have a feeling our story isn’t over just yet.”
39
HENRI
I head to Paris on foot, through the woods. I’m provided directions to the safe houses along the way by Roche’s contact before I’m led to the airmen I’ll be guiding.
Any optimism I felt diminishes once we meet. One of the two Brits, Reginald Price, is shifty-eyed and sullen. Nothing about him engen
ders trust. The other, Thomas Stevens, is quite ill, struggling with a foot he thinks he may have broken upon landing. He’s not willing to remain behind, but a journey like this is taxing on even the strongest of men, and I don’t see him making it through Pyrenees without assistance. The American, Michael Quinn, is neither ill nor untrustworthy, but he’s brash and loud and behaves as if this is some kind of lark, which leaves him, in my estimation, the most likely to get us all killed.
We sneak out of Paris by the skin of our teeth, one block at a time, hiding in the shadows the whole way. We walk all night and most of the day, making our way through the woods instead of using main roads. Our progress is slowed significantly by Stevens, who is dragging his foot like a heavy bag behind him.
“He’s slowing us down,” Price says under his breath. “We need to leave him behind.”
My lip curls. They’re not just countrymen—they flew together and were the only two of their crew to survive. I don’t trust any man with so little loyalty to a soldier he’s fought beside. “No one’s getting left behind.”
“It’s your funeral,” Price mutters.
Our funeral, I long to correct, but say nothing. Fighting will only delay getting them to the final safe house, which will delay the one thing I want right now: to get home.
“You got a girl, Durand?” asks Quinn as we settle into the first safe house, which is little more than a shack and provides no protection from the elements.
My eyes are closed. I don’t want to talk right now. I want to picture Sarah waiting in bed for me or the smile on her face when I walk through the door. I want to think of the way she looks as she sits with Cece in the rocking chair or brushes Charlotte’s hair. I still don’t understand how she could have thought I’d want her to leave, but I suppose being raised by a woman who hates you is hard to shake.
“Yes,” I reply. “Amelie. You?”
He shrugs. “I did have one, before the war started. When I volunteered, she found herself some college boy who didn’t enlist. You got a photo?”
Reluctantly, I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a copy of her passport photo, taken just before she was held captive. She’s in the blue dress, though it simply looks gray in the picture, and she smiles at the camera with a certain look in her eyes—the kind that promises all sorts of delights once I’ve put the camera away. Only a few days have passed, but I miss her badly.
Quinn lets out a low whistle. “Sweet Jesus. She have a sister?”
I laugh unwillingly. “No.”
“Hope you stashed her somewhere safe.”
I fight the uneasy feeling in my stomach, closing my eyes to remember how fierce Sarah was that day the Germans came. When she threw that last knife with nary a glance, but still managed to sever the commander’s brainstem. If anyone can protect herself and our children until I get back, it’s her.
The next morning begins several very long days, as we make our way to the free zone. Once we finally arrive, Quinn starts to cheer and I silence him. “Don’t let the name fool you,” I warn. “Vichy isn’t as free as you might hope. And we have a long walk to the Pyrenees ahead.”
He quiets down, but his unfailing optimism remains firmly in place, which is still far preferable to Price’s weasel eyes, constantly shifting between the group of us. He suggests more than once, under his breath, that Stevens should be put out of his misery. “It would be the kindest thing to do,” he says.
If the situation weren’t so grim, I’d laugh. Sarah killed bad people in order to save her own life and thinks she’s evil and violent because of it. But true evil is surrounding us right now in men like Price, men who kill for selfish reasons and tell themselves it’s heroism. I can’t even judge him too harshly for it. Every day I spend in his company has me justifying reasons to put a knife in his back too.
On the ninth day of our journey—four days behind schedule—we finally see the Pyrenees rising in the distance. This time, I’m able to share Quinn’s broad grin.
“Nearly there,” he says.
I laugh. “We’re still two days from the base.”
“Don’t ruin this for me, Frenchy,” he replies. “I’m picturing a big steak dinner and a pretty girl waiting at the bottom of that mountain and you won’t persuade me otherwise.”
Stevens, his bad foot now dragging audibly behind him, does not share our happiness. Climbing those peaks seems a daunting task even to me, and in his current state I can’t imagine what it will take to get through it. I argue with myself for the next two days, but when we reach the safe house in Carcassonne, I finally pull him aside.
“The journey so far has been easy, compared to what it will be,” I tell him. I flinch, thinking of what it will mean if he accepts the offer I’m about to make. It will add a week or more to the time I’m gone, at the very least. “If you’d like to rest here and gather your strength, I’ll come back for you.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “My son turns three next week, and my wife’s due at the end of the month. I suppose I won’t be there for either of them, but it’d be a hell of a surprise if I were, wouldn’t it? I’ve got to try.”
I give him a brief nod. I disagree with his decision, but it’s not mine to make. “It would,” I agree. “I’ll do my best to get you there.”
We sleep all day by the fire and set out at nightfall with fresh bread and tinned ham in our packs, skirting the main road so we don’t miss the trail that will lead us into the mountains. As sunrise approaches, the terrain grows steep and the air thins. Stevens struggles to keep up, his breathing harsh and irregular.
“Come on, mate,” I urge quietly. “I see the trail ahead, which means we’ll be stopping soon.”
“Not at the rate he’s moving,” snarls Price. “And the Krauts are all over this damn place, so if we’re still out at daylight we’re good as dead.”
“Fuck off, Price, you selfish bastard,” says Quinn. “Where’s your fucking loyalty?”
Price rounds on him as I turn onto the trail. “You shouldn’t even be here. The British government is trying to get us home, not—”
A floodlight blinds us and I jerk to a stop, squinting into the glare. Five Germans stand there, blocking the path ahead, their rifles trained on us.
And then they tell us to drop to the ground.
40
SARAH
January is the coldest month I’ve ever endured. So cold that I can feel it in my teeth if I stand near the window, and so gray it’s hard to imagine there was ever a time when it was otherwise.
I wake each morning feeling as if I’m holding my breath, waiting for Henri’s return. How could anyone survive in this weather for four weeks? Lucien climbs up to the window several times a day with those sad brown eyes of his, ever hopeful that Henri will be walking around the corner. I can hardly fault him—I keep hoping for it too.
Cecelia, my poor sweet baby, is sicker by the day. I really thought she was turning a corner, around the time Henri left. But then the crying began, a heartbreaking wail I can’t seem to fix. She needs real milk, real meat, real fruit. All three of them do. They haven’t had food that wasn’t from a tin for weeks. When the last day of the month comes and goes with no sign of Henri, I know I can’t keep waiting on his return to get us something in town.
And I can’t keep waiting to find out what happened to him.
Before sunrise the next day, I grab every ration card we possess, along with an obscene amount of money, and leave Charlotte in charge of Lucien. I know I should put them in the cellar in case we have visitors, but it’s so cold I can’t stand the thought of it. I promise Lucien chocolate if he is very good while I’m gone, and then bundle Cecelia into her pram. A month ago, she’d have been far too restless to lie down in the stroller the way she does now. A week ago, she’d have wailed until the entire town was staring at us. Now, she doesn’t fight and she doesn’t cry. My stomach clenches into a knot so tight that it hurts as I look at her.
I walk through town in the darkness u
ntil I arrive at Roche’s home, on the less savory side of Saint Antoine. I lift Cece from her pram and knock on the door. He looks me over with interest for a moment, and then his eyes narrow and he grasps me by the arm so hard and so suddenly I nearly drop Cece as I’m yanked over his threshold.
“I know you,” he says. “You’re Durand’s whore. And if you mean to threaten me by showing up like this, let me assure you I don’t take threats kindly.”
I pull Cece closer to my chest, my heart hammering hard. With her here, I can’t do any of the things I’d like to right now. “I’m not threatening you. I want to know where my husband is.”
He looks me over again, head-to-toe. “He’s not your husband, as I recall. He’s someone else’s. He didn’t even try to get papers for you, you know.”
Anger makes my vision begin to cut in around the edges. “Answer the question,” I reply between gritted teeth. “Where is he?”
“There’s been no word,” he replies. “I’m assuming that means he failed and got them all killed, but you’d need to ask my contact in Paris to be certain.”
Killed. I restrain my desire to shudder. He’s not dead. Maybe he’s captured, but he’s not dead. He can’t be.
“Well, in order to speak to anyone in Paris, I’ll need those travel papers you promised.”
He arches a brow. “I agreed to create those papers in exchange for a job he has not yet done. When the airmen reach England, then he shall have his papers.” His eyes roam over me. “Unless you’d like to strike another sort of deal.”
Rage boils in my blood. This man is risking Henri’s life but won’t hold up his side of the bargain, though it will cost him nothing. “I’m not striking another sort of deal with a man who still hasn’t honored the first one.”
He grasps my elbow and pulls me to the door. “Then we have nothing to discuss. Come here again and I’ll see that you regret it.”
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