The Lost Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  “The Underground?” Vi shot her glare over to the window facing the street, forgetting for a moment that it had been covered over outside with a layer of sandbags, and blackout shades had been installed indoors some time ago. “Is it safe to be out on the streets right now?”

  “That answer is above my pay grade. But safe as it is anywhere in London these days. And quite better than spending the night in our musty old basement here, drinking tepid tea and noshing that leftover stew from the dining hall. I’d rather take our chances with the rations at the Tube station canteen.” Carole flashed a charm bracelet with gold and red cherries dangling round her wrist. “And the company just might have its perks too.”

  “That’s new.”

  “Sure is. Met a chap in the RAF last time the sirens carried us underground.” She winked. “Promised I’d keep an eye peeled for his uniform next time.”

  The building rattled, a nearby picture frame jangling against the wall with a fresh blast. Air-raid sirens hastened in, their maddening cry causing Vi to jump nearly out of her skin.

  They exchanged glances, knowing hearts connecting through locked eyes.

  In London in 1941, sirens deafened wartime promises with aching regularity. Each time their call began, they swept in with a sense of urgency, though Londoners had been greeted by them dozens of times before. But this night, something was different. The air stopped feeling . . . normal. The drumming of typewriter keys and the telephone rings that often echoed through the offices . . . clinks of dishes in waiters’ hands and the chatter coming from the dining hall—the usual background sounds, even for the late hour that it was, fell into an eerie silence.

  Carole reached out, easing the books from Vi’s hands. She stacked them on a telephone table nearby, then hooked Vi’s handbag over her wrist to the elbow. She offered a crimson-lipped smile, something so in-character for the office girl with the Able Grable high spirits and dishy smile.

  “You shine up real nice, you know,” she whispered, prompting Vi to release her grip on the wall. Carole’s attempt at normal so welcome in the midst of madness that it drew a smile to her lips as well. “Brilliant duds.”

  Vi tipped her shoulders in a light shrug. “It’s from last year, but I thought for tonight . . . why not?”

  She straightened the jacket of the pretty spring suit—the one her mother had made—a deep lavender, the color to match her eyes. She’d worn it with pearls and her last pair of nylons that didn’t have holes in any place that would show. And beetroot juice lip stain wouldn’t do for that evening. Vi had held back a tube of Tangee lipstick saved through rationing, a vibrant splash of color dubbed Red Majesty, and had tucked it in her handbag for later.

  And it was later.

  Despite bomb blasts and the sirens’ cry, Vi would endure it wearing a bright smile.

  “A lot of good shining up does for us now. But at least we’ll be the best-dressed ladies in the Tube.” Vi opened the tortoise-resin handles on her purse and dug inside until she found the lipstick. She held it up, victorious. “So, Charing Cross Station?”

  “That’s a gas that we’re going there, I know. We were supposed to be hoofing it at the Blue Lagoon Club, and we end up sleeping in the Tube station anyway. If I snag my last pair of nylons trying to get down those steps, I’ll go absolutely mad.”

  “At least it’s not far.” She linked her arm with Carole’s and forced a brave smile. “Let’s go. We’ll swipe this color on our lips and descend into the abyss of tracks and RAF uniforms together.”

  Vi drew in a deep breath, her last before the roar of planes infected the sky and the screech of air-raid sirens was overtaken by an eerie whistle that slashed the night.

  A savage burst enveloped them, blasting the world to bits.

  Dust and plaster. Brick and books. Walls, those shivering ceiling lamps, glass from the windows, and grit from exploding sandbag barriers outside—all crumbled down in a massive would-be grave.

  The oddly sweet smell of propellant—cordite?—filled Vi’s nostrils first. She coughed under its weight. And then blinking and inhaling and choking through dust this time . . . The few breaths she’d managed to capture were taken over by smoke rising from the dining hall—the blackness burning straight down to her lungs with each new breath.

  A fireball had burst through, intense heat and smoke invading the length of the dining hall and their little alcove just outside it. The telephone table had vanished in a blink, along with the stack of books, their paper and wood bones strewn through the hallway. Loose paper, smoldering and singed in the corners, drifted down in a haunting ticker-tape parade.

  Vi brushed at the floating debris, feeling strangely numb and calm somehow, as one would sweep cobwebs from an attic’s corners. With ears ringing and lungs punished, the relentless toil for each breath a fresh battle, she climbed through the rubble, scraping the flesh on her hands and knees, shredding the nylons that had seemed so important but moments before. And as if the sirens’ call and the whistle of bombs had not been hellish enough, the worst came in the bomb blast’s aftermath.

  All manner of sounds haunted the air in chilling cries from both man and machine: the grinding of engines and raining of bombs from planes overhead . . . The otherworldly crackle of fire . . . Low moans and terrified shrieks—shouts of first responders with fire wagons wailing on the streets. Or were they coworkers around her? Maybe Carole, for Vi had already lost her in the pile of debris. Vi heard her own cries then too, tears falling, mixing with smoke and ash and a new, terrifying silence as she clawed at the rubble with her bare hands.

  “Carole?” She could scarcely whisper—her voice sounded foreign to ears still ringing from the blast. She drank deep of dust-filled oxygen, summoned her lost voice, then bellowed a series of guttural “Help!” shouts down the hall.

  The world of the Royal Empire Society had become oddly loud and silent at the same time, encompassed in both light and darkness, giving Hitler’s barrage an authentic face for the first time.

  War was not a game of rationed lipstick and spring suits worn in the Underground. It was raw and real and happening with savage consequences all around.

  Their world had been ripped clean in two and Vi, the unprepared secretary still in the midst of her Cambridge education, didn’t know the first thing about being a hero. Her world had been stories: English and literacy and languages. All words. And social impact at a charity that invited women as members and sought to spread knowledge throughout the king’s empire. Heroism had never entered her mind, unless it was found in the character of a book. And now, fighting, clawing through rubble, she felt beaten by the dragon of death in its first real blow against her.

  Cries echoed louder. Fire popped and sizzled. More whistles, from somewhere, and then a fresh shaking in what remained of the building around them.

  Another blast—this one not direct, but close.

  Where are the fire wagons?

  “Carole?” Vi heard her own cries, over and over, shouts mingling with the rest of her coworkers, pleading for help. She kept digging for life, though terrified that she’d find nothing but death. Her friend was no longer standing at her side, with painted lips and a sassy toss of curls over her shoulder when she talked.

  Carole . . . Carole.

  The last horror her eyes remembered clearly as the debris field flooded with help from the street: men moving in slow motion though they hurried in Vi’s direction. Digging, clearing debris, unearthing a lifeless palm and wrist that extended from the rubble, with golden cherries covered in a layer of dust . . . and blood.

  APRIL 23, 1944

  LES TROIS-MOUTIERS

  LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

  The roar of plane engines wrangled Vi from a deep sleep.

  She jerked awake, greeted by the cottage’s weathered wood rafters overhead, trying to judge if the sounds were real or merely ghosts of her imagination. For nearly every time she fell into sleep, vivid dreams took her back to the Royal Empire Society’s Northumberland
Avenue headquarters, and the night in 1941 when her life had taken its first detour.

  Sweat tickled her brow.

  Vi swiped at it, trying to focus, to remind herself where she was. If she waited, the memory of that night would fade and within seconds the bomb-blasted room would turn into the place she’d last closed her eyes in sleep—this time, a hidden winemaker’s cottage in a Loire Valley vineyard.

  The castle ruins . . . the treelined road to the castle and Julien’s face, staring at her from behind a rifle . . . The events of the day before brought her back to the present. With trembling hands she felt around the cot. The rifle barrel was as she’d left it, lying cold and still beside her. She wrapped her palms around it, clinging to it like a lifeline.

  There was no drone of planes overhead, no coworkers crying out for help . . . no Carole lost in the debris again, to her absolute relief.

  You are safe, Vi told herself. Over and over, even if it was a lie, she said it.

  Breathe . . . Breathe . . .

  You are safe.

  Planes or not, something was cutting through the night, stirring now that her senses were fully awake to notice. A distant hum pulled Vi up to sitting. Curiosity drew her to the window, the rifle fused to her grip. She parted the blackout fabric so she could look out.

  The forest was shrouded, layered in shadows, night having moved in after she’d slept through the whole of the day. She squinted, peering through the trees.

  Yes, there was movement. Something mechanical. Vehicles? The shadows advanced through the night like an army of legionnaire ants, marching the long road to the castle. She counted no fewer than four great, lumbering beasts—oversized box trucks—their headlamps extinguished. Men, maybe women too, wearing mismatched clothes, moved about in one accord, as if they needed no instruction to accomplish a task through the darkness.

  Vi watched long enough to see the trucks ease to a stop and men jump from the back, moving about, tossing wooden crates from truck beds to waiting arms. With nimble authority, men disappeared through the trees like ghosts gone to haunt the castle ruins. The process of unloading, carrying, and disappearing went on only for mere moments—not long enough for her to decipher any purpose other than to arrive and then disappear again. The who, the why, even the what—they remained a mystery.

  And then, silence.

  Just as suddenly as they’d appeared, the trucks retreated, the hum of their engines vanishing back into the night. The men, too, were absorbed into blossoming trees and the forest reverted to its natural existence. Shadows remained, only trees disturbed by a gentle breeze that toyed with their limbs and young leaves.

  She watched for long moments afterward, waiting. Wondering if men would filter through the trees, climb the ridge, and—heaven help her—find the winemaker’s cottage with the stowaway hiding inside.

  But the forest slept.

  No more trucks. No men. Certainly no plane engines or terror raining from the sky like she’d experienced during the Blitz. This was not London but Nazi-occupied France, a place with no laws or rules, save for the ones dictated by the savage creature that was war.

  Vi finally let the blackout curtain drift back into place and allowed the lure of sleep to call her back. The RES bombing had been the first time anyone had died before her eyes—but she feared it wouldn’t be the last. That she was certain of. Exhaustion swept over her and she melted onto the cot, collapsing as her world became painted in the blackness of sleep once again.

  If only dreams would consent to leave her in peace . . . for one precious night.

  TEN

  APRIL 25, 1788

  CHAPELLE DE LA SORBONNE

  PARIS, FRANCE

  Aveline parted the velvet coach curtain.

  The driver had stopped their coach and four on the street in front of the long, paved courtyard at the Chapelle de la Sorbonne. She peeked out at the domed chapel and church complex that backdropped a street bustling with commerce—an outdoor market teemed with patrons, goods, and merchants, all bustling and buying, in spite of the dreary weather.

  Spring was toying with them, keeping Paris under skies of a colorless gray, plaguing the streets with a chilling drizzle that refused to release its steadfast grip on winter. It was curious, then, that even on such a day the church steps were covered over with the masses. Dressed in scraps and huddled against the elements, a succession of somber faces created a striking contrast against the lavishness of Corinthian columns and fountains spread throughout the courtyard.

  They’d lined up along one of the expansive wings of the complex, preparing for what appeared to be a processional behind an old wooden barouche, its wagon wheels stilled and workhorses’ hooves clip-clopping even while at temporary rest.

  Raindrops had weighted the peacock feather on Aveline’s spring hat. She waved it back out of her face and rubbed her gloved palm in a circle on the glass, doing her best to see through the marred view the window provided. “Why have we stopped, Papa?”

  “Ah . . . the mundane beast of business.”

  Baron Évrard Sainte-Moreau flipped open the golden cover of his pocket watch. Cathedral bells chimed outside the carriage, and he grunted approval as he replaced the timekeeper in his vest pocket. “Nine o’clock. Bien—right on time.”

  “Business this early?” When Aveline realized he intended to explain no further, she pushed, asking, “And at the church?”

  Évrard issued a customary furrow of the brow and an I’ll put-up-with-you smile—the look he always gave Aveline when she questioned the merits of something she was to know or care not a thing about. He should have had a son in her, he maintained, for Aveline was far too curieuse for her own good.

  The man of la noblesse would concede that his younger daughter had been gifted with both his noble lineage and her mother’s beauty—attractive qualities when the time came for her to marry. But he’d noted that the addition of an inquiring mind to her person both amused and perplexed him. He enjoyed Aveline’s attention to wit and inquiry, though she doubted he’d ever encourage her outright use of either.

  He much preferred she keep the peculiarity of such character flaws secret from the knowing world.

  “Yes. At the church, petite fille.” He reached over, dismissing her with a tap of his index finger to the book in her lap. “See to your reading, if it amuses you. But stay here. Keep the curtain drawn. And mind you don’t go looking for les problems, hmm? You needn’t burden yourself with the woes of the world—unless they are matters a lady can discuss in the privacy of a salon.”

  Her spine stiffened, almost on its own.

  “And if woes greater than dress fittings and needlepoint should interest me?”

  He pitched an eyebrow. “Then I may have to pay heed to the titles you select from my library. What is it you’re reading today?”

  “Nothing of consequence.” Aveline ignored the barb and slid the book under her cloak, shielding the title from his view.

  She slid her gaze back to the people beyond the coach curtain. Their line had begun moving along, haltingly, a bleak procession lumbering through the rain. “This is a holy place, one for restoration and reflection. Woes should be banished, should they not? Whatever kind of trouble might we find here, Papa?”

  “Indeed.” He tapped his walking stick on the floor of the coach. The door opened, mist sweeping in as the coachman stood by, his wig and uniform peppered with the blast of raindrops. “I shan’t be long.”

  The coach released her father’s weight and the door clicked closed behind him, leaving Aveline alone—and effectively blocked out. She turned back to the gathering stretching down the paved walkway.

  The mass had begun to move and the barouche wheels made their slow, ambling turns as the workhorses labored, cutting ruts through the muddy street. Something was piled in the wagon bed—bags of wheat? Perhaps a load of turnips or goods going to the market? But the wagon appeared as if it might proceed on to the busiest part of the market. Why, then, was a processional
trailing after it?

  Aveline craned her neck, trying to see, finding that the velvet and fogged glass worked together in obstructing her efforts.

  The parade of souls warranted explanation, at the very least, to the bend of Aveline’s curious nature. There was no cause for a trek in such weather. Why, there were even children—some quite young and struggling to keep up on tiny legs—teetering along with mothers and fathers or weaving in and out among the adults. These were the discontented, the lowly paysans, Aveline’s mother would have called them. The peasants who crowded the alleys of the city’s underbelly, and the lion’s share of the crude assemblage she’d been taught to overlook.

  They turned away from the formal cemetery gates and stopped short of the market, instead filtering along a sodden alley between the church building and the next block. Their path disappeared round a cover of trees, the crowd bleeding away through the adjoining park and chapel cemetery.

  Aveline pulled the hood of her cape over her hat, her decision made, and rapped her palm to the glass on the door. The coachman hesitated only a second, then opened the door with a nod.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  “Oui, Durand. I’m coming out.”

  He fumbled for a breath but opened the door the rest of the way when she moved without giving a chance for him to deny her.

  Aveline reached for his hand and climbed down without explanation. She glanced down the road in front of them. The line of people moved past the small cemetery, their shadows fading behind rows of monuments. Even with their slow, steady gait, she’d have to quickstep it to keep the people in sight.

  “Stay here, s’il vous plaît. I shall return momentarily.”

  “But, mademoiselle—whatever shall I tell the baron?”