“Mamamamama,” she cries when she’s close enough to see my face, releasing Marie’s hand and running on chubby little legs, her arms outstretched. She lands with a thud against me, wrapping her arms around my neck and scrambling into my lap with such force that she knocks me flat on my back. I lie on the ground, laughing while her arms squeeze me tight, until Henri lifts her up and turns to face his sister for the first time since he left to go fight.
Marie no longer wears a nun’s habit and is flourishing in the early-spring air. Her eyes glow, her cheeks are rosy, and she is smiling widely.
And he looks torn. He loves his sister and a part of him is clearly relieved to find her safe here. But there’s something else going on with him, a tension I’ve seen in him ever since last winter, whenever her name has come up.
I rise and nod toward the children playing in the grass. “None of them would be here were it not for what Edouard and Marie did,” I remind him softly.
“It’s true,” says Marie. “You can’t blame me, under the circumstances? And we’ll be married as soon as he’s defrocked.”
His jaw grinds. “You think this is about the fact that you’re not married?” he asks incredulously. “What about the fact that Amelie nearly died for your sake and you repaid her by abandoning her in Saint Antoine? She and Cecelia could be safely away in England right now if it weren’t for you.”
And there it is, the real source of his distress. He just wishes a few of us were safe.
Marie’s smile fades. “You left her alone in Saint Antoine too, did you not? Don’t hold what I did against me when you also did it twice.”
I see Edouard approaching, out of his priest attire, and for once it’s me who keeps a level head. “No one knew what was coming,” I say quickly, “and it all worked out for the best.” This child that grows inside me is there because I stayed. If we’d made it to England, none of this would have happened.
I feel his urge to argue, and then it releases as his lips brush over my hair. “You’re right. Our family is perfect just as it is.”
He and Edouard shake hands, both of them tense. I think they’ll be friends in time, which is good, because they have more in common than they know. I’ve been piecing it together—that glow to Marie, the flush of her cheeks.
I’m not the only one here who’s pregnant.
* * *
The chateau belongs to Genevieve Lepin, one of the country’s wealthiest women and—ostensibly—a Nazi sympathizer. Her mansion in Paris is at the heart of wartime society, a salon for German officers to mingle with the city’s prettiest girls while drinking its best liquor and dining on foie gras, which gives Genevieve many privileges most French citizens don’t have. One of those privileges is that her property is left alone, and I’ll admit that a bombed-out, gated off home makes a good hiding place for the time being. While the ten cottages that sit on the periphery of the rolling green lawn are a bit rudimentary, they provide room enough for everyone—twenty children, plus Marta and Rachel, two Jews who fled from Germany to France—and in the one section of the house that remains standing there are two baths and part of a kitchen. Genevieve is still trying to help them get papers for all the children, but in the meantime it seems as good a solution as any.
Marie shows me to the cottage Henri and I will share with Charlotte, Lucien and Cecelia—it’s a single large room with a curtain used to partition off the beds—a double for me and Henri, and another large bed for the three children.
“So it seems we’re both pregnant,” I say, turning to face her.
Her eyes go wide. “But I thought—” she begins.
I shrug. “I thought so too. I don’t understand it. But...I’ve met her. She visited us when we were on our way here.”
Marie sinks onto a bed. “A time traveler then,” she says.
I hesitate. For the past two years, Marie has believed—as we did—that she was the hidden child of the prophecy. I never got the feeling that it mattered to her, but I can’t swear that it didn’t matter either.
“I think it’s more than that,” I reply. I explain about learning that I’m from one of the first families, and then witnessing our daughter’s powers firsthand. “I think she may be the hidden child,” I conclude.
Her jaw falls open as I speak, and when I’m done, she buries her face in her hands and begins to cry. I’d thought she might be disappointed, at most, but I never expected this. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, placing my hand on her shoulder. “Nothing is certain...I had no idea you’d be so upset.”
She raises her tearstained face to mine and laughs. “I’m not upset,” she says. “I’m relieved. All this time I’ve been thinking the child I lost might have been the circle of light or whatever it is, and that I ruined it. The prophecy my mother died for, that we nearly died for.” She wipes her eyes. “What you’re telling me means I haven’t ruined anything at all.”
Poor Marie, carrying so much guilt for no reason. “I’m sorry you ever thought it,” I tell her.
She steps back, frowning again. “But if the war isn’t ending for years still, does it mean you’ll go forward in time to have her?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “We haven’t decided.”
Her hand grasps mine. “I’m sorry the responsibility has been placed on your shoulders,” she says. “But so many people have lost their lives or their loved ones in order for this to happen. If you’re truly having the hidden child and you’re supposed to go forward, I hope you’ll think it through.”
* * *
That night, we put the children to bed and then retreat to our own.
“I told Marie about the baby,” I whisper, pressing close to him. “She seems to think it’s my duty to go home to have her.”
He stiffens. “How convenient for her to suddenly preach to you about duty while she sleeps with a priest.”
“Henri,” I chide, “she was just being honest.”
“If she wants honesty,” he growls, “I’ll have plenty for her and Edouard in turn.”
I shouldn’t have brought it up. He’s mostly made up with Marie, but if he thinks she’s pressuring me to leave, his anger will ignite once more.
My palm presses to the side of his face and I tip my head just enough to press my lips to his.
“If you’re trying to use sex to distract me,” he says, pulling me closer, “you’ll probably succeed.”
I laugh. “We can’t have sex here,” I whisper. “Until the war ends, we may never have sex again.”
“Of course we will,” he says, sliding down the bed. “You’ll just need to learn to be quiet.” He lifts my nightgown up and spreads my legs.
“Oh, I’m the one who makes too much noise?” I ask drily, pushing up on my forearms.
He grins. “Shall I prove it to you?” His tongue darts between my legs, over me and then in me and I gasp, holding the pillow over my face.
“Fine,” I whisper. “It’s me. Keep going. I’ll learn to be quiet.”
48
SARAH
Spring arrives. We fall into a routine, and our days are busy but happy. Food is scarce—mostly tinned food sent by Genevieve, augmented by what Henri and Edouard manage to trap in the woods—but there are luxuries that come our way occasionally. Flour, sugar, chocolate, fresh fruit. It certainly doesn’t feel as if we’re suffering.
All the adults take turns teaching, though our cumulative knowledge is less useful than we’d like, and nights are spent sitting at the long table Henri and Edouard built. The children eat with us and then play until it’s dark, making our time here feel, in some ways, like an extended vacation, albeit it one with terrible food and cramped accommodations.
Tonight, before dinner is even over, Cecelia grows tired and climbs over Charlotte’s lap to reach me, yawning as she rests her head against my chest.
Charlotte plugs her nose. “She needs a diaper change.”
I start to rise, but Henri takes her from me. “I’ll get it,” he says. “You sit. You’
ve been on your feet all day.”
Rachel’s eldest, a twelve-year old named Daniel, frowns. “I’m never going to change a diaper.”
“When we get married,” Charlotte informs him, “you will need to help.”
Henri makes a sound that is either laughter or choking, perhaps a little of both.
“You’re six years younger than me,” says Daniel, flushing. “I can’t marry you.”
“When I’m eighteen, you will be twenty-four,” she informs him. “And it won’t seem like so great a difference.”
“Charlotte will be a beauty one day,” Marie says later, after the children are in bed, “and Daniel will wish he hadn’t been quite so dismissive.”
I squeeze Henri’s hand. “You’ll have to beat back so many boys who come for Charlotte and Cecelia both.”
“So you’ve decided to go forward after the war to have your child?” asks Marie. Her voice is so hopeful and grateful it makes me wince.
“No, she hasn’t,” Henri snaps. “We don’t even know that this is the hidden child she carries.”
“Of course it is!” cries Marie. “What are the odds that two of the four first families would come together to produce a child?”
“If Sarah can get pregnant once, she can get pregnant again,” Henri says, staring hard at the table, apparently ignoring the fact that it was our daughter herself who told me she’d never met him. “And we don’t owe it to anyone to keep the child in another time.”
Marie’s jaw drops. “Henri, be reasonable. This is about more than the two of you. It’s about more than any of us. Have we not seen firsthand how much harm a powerful time traveler can do?”
Henri’s nostrils flare. “Who, Coron? He wasn’t a time traveler.”
“You’re right,” she snaps. “But imagine how much worse it could have been if he were. Imagine a powerful time traveler with bad intentions—or even a family of time travelers. They would be undefeatable if they wanted something. If they fail, they can just keep going back.”
“You’re speaking in hypotheticals,” says Henri. “I’m talking about the flesh-and-blood woman I love.” He’s so resistant to the idea he can’t think clearly, and I suppose I am too. Even if it was only four more years, that’s four years without Henri. Cece would be six when she caught up with me, Lucien, seven, Charlotte, ten. And if I have to return to my own time, it would be so much longer. I’d need to wait until our child was eighteen before I returned to them. They’d all be adults by then. Adults who barely remember me.
“I’m sorry,” Marie says. “I’m not trying to ruin these months for you. I hate that this may mean Amelie is leaving. But...what’s being asked of her is a gift. Don’t you see? Anyone, anywhere in the future could appear and take this away from us. They could go back to kill us as children and even remove the times we’ve already had. With this child coming, I understand now why our mother hated that so much. I wouldn’t want to be in Amelie’s position, but if I were, I know what I would do.”
“The prophecy is a prediction,” Henri says. “If the child is supposed to be hidden, it should happen naturally, because circumstances dictate it. Not because we followed what it said like a play book.”
He’s right. And yet, when I think of all the people who died or suffered, hoping to bring this to fruition...a part of me thinks I owe it to all of them to do this the right way.
Henri and I retreat to the cottage a few minutes later, both of us worn down by worry and guilt. Maybe Marie is right, but when I picture raising this baby alone, away from Henri and the children, I can feel how painful it will be, how lonely. My heart would break a little more every single day.
We are quiet as we get ready for bed. It’s only after we’ve lied down that he raises up on his forearm to meet my gaze.
“I’d like to marry you before she’s born,” he says. “I know it won’t be official until the state can sanction it, but I still want to do it.”
I smile for the first time since our discussion with Marie began. “Fortunately,” I reply, “we happen to know a priest.”
* * *
On a sundrenched June morning, I walk with Charlotte to the small chapel in the woods, part of the estate dating back to the 1600s. I wear a dress recovered from the ruins of the chateau and altered to fit my growing stomach—what was once a diaphanous ballgown has been turned into a maternity wedding dress that goes down to my ankles, tied under the bust with a white satin sash. Charlotte beams beside me, swinging the basket of flowers she and Lucien spent the morning picking.
“Can I wear that dress when I marry Daniel?” she asks.
I laugh. “Yes, though I hope you’ll give it a few years.” And won’t be pregnant. We’ve reached the top of the church steps. “Are we ready, my loveliest flower girl?”
She nods and we enter. Henri waits at the end of the aisle, resplendent in a suit borrowed from Edouard. His eyes meet mine, and despite the situation I feel nothing but joy. This moment is happening because of all the things we went through, all the ways we suffered. I’d have fought so many things tooth and nail, had I known ahead of time—the broken ankle that stranded me with Henri the first summer we met, being held captive, Cecelia’s birth, remaining behind with Charlotte and Lucien when the Germans invaded, letting Henri know who I really was—but they’ve brought us here, and because of that I would change none of them.
He pulls me against him when I reach the altar. “You’re so lovely,” he says, low enough that only I can hear. “I can’t believe you’re finally going to be mine.”
I smile. “I was yours all along. Even back when I insisted I wasn’t.”
His mouth finds mine and I sigh happily. At last, at last, at last...I feel like I’ve waited my entire life to get here.
“Papa,” scolds Charlotte. “You’re supposed to do that at the end.”
Everyone laughs and Edouard, smiling, begins to read.
Our vows are simple and said quickly, given that the church is full of restless children. But as Henri kisses me for the first time as his wife, I feel new again. As if God has, once more, decided to forgive me for what I became.
* * *
That night, Marie takes the children and we have the cottage to ourselves.
We retire early, and Henri carries me over the threshold, tugging the sash of my dress loose before he’s even set me down. He crosses the room to light a lamp and I object.
“What do we need light for?” I ask. “I sort of assumed we’d be...going to bed.”
He laughs. “Oh, we definitely will be.” He removes his jacket as he crosses the room to me, then turns me away so he can unbutton my dress. “But for the last two months, I’ve made love to you furtively.” His mouth presses to my neck, and then my ear, making me shiver. “Tonight, I want all of you—the sight of you, the sounds you make. All of it.”
He pulls the dress down my shoulders and to the floor before holding out a hand so I can step out of it. I turn toward him, and his hands go to either side of my belly. “I never dreamed that in the middle of a war, my life could be so perfect,” he says.
I reach up and begin to unbutton his shirt. “Not perfect yet,” I reply, going on my toes to find his mouth as I pull the shirt off. “But it’s about to be.”
49
SARAH
June gives way to July.
I’m six months pregnant, and I’ve never longed for a respite from the heat the way I do now. I want air conditioning and ice. I want a shower.
But I refuse to wish these days of summer away. Because once they’re gone, it will be time for us to make a decision.
We’ve been avoiding that conversation of late, perhaps because we both feel time slipping away. I’m nowhere near ready to be separated from him or the children. If I were to go into labor today, I know I would not be able to leave, and three months from now, I’m sure I’ll feel the same.
I wake with the sun each day, my nightgown sticking to me. Toward the month’s end, it’s not even light out w
hen I’m putting my head out the window, hoping to catch a bit of a breeze.
“My God, the heat is going to be unbearable today, isn’t it?” I whisper to Henri.
“Take off your nightgown and I’ll run a cool cloth over you.”
I raise a brow. “I know where taking off my nightgown will lead.”
He laughs. “If the children weren’t going to wake any moment now, you’d be right. But just this once, I promise you’re safe.”
I pull the nightgown off and sit, relishing the feel of air on my bare skin. “I would kill for a Coke Slurpee,” I tell Henri. I’ve explained Slurpees to him on many occasions. The name never fails to make him laugh, as it does now.
“Such a disgusting concept,” he says, dabbing a cloth into the pitcher of water on the nightstand and running it over my back and then my neck, “but I promise to find you one once the war ends.”
“I’m not sure you ever get 7-Elevens in France.”
His smile falters for half a second. Perhaps remembering, as I am, that our daughter said we live in Virginia. There’s rustling on the other side of the curtain—one restless child about to wake the others—but his hand goes to my hip and holds there for a moment. “Then I’ll make you one,” he says. “Because you’re staying here.”
I let my forehead fall to his chest, and that’s when we hear it—the distant rumble of a car on the road. I know it’s probably just food coming from Genevieve, or perhaps even the forged papers she’s promised—she’s already come through for Marta and her children, who left a week earlier for the south of France. But it never gets easier, this uncertainty. Henri meets my eye and I nod. We both know the drill by now.
We dress quickly, then I rush out with Cece in my arms, waking everyone, while he grabs a gun and climbs through the hedge to get to the front gate with Edouard right behind him. Marie, Rachel and I walk through the woods with the children between us until we reach the old church and hustle everyone inside. Then we wait, holding our breath to listen.
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