As if that would help. Vianne had been as quick to abandon Isabelle as Papa had been.

She realized that she was the only one left in the carriage. Clasping her suitcase in her gloved hand, she sidled out of the seat and exited the carriage.

The platforms were full of people. Trains stood in shuddering rows; smoke filled the air, puffed up toward the high, arched ceiling. Somewhere a whistle blared. Great iron wheels began to churn. The platform trembled beneath her feet.

Her father stood out, even in the crowd.

When he spotted her, she saw the irritation that transformed his features, reshaped his expression into one of grim determination.

He was a tall man, at least six foot two, but he had been bent by the Great War. Or at least that was what Isabelle remembered hearing once. His broad shoulders sloped downward, as if posture were too much to think about with all that was on his mind. His thinning hair was gray and unkempt. He had a broad, flattened nose, like a spatula, and lips as thin as an afterthought. On this hot summer day, he wore a wrinkled white shirt, with sleeves rolled up; a tie hung loosely tied around his fraying collar, and his corduroy pants were in need of laundering.

She tried to look … mature. Perhaps that was what he wanted of her.

“Isabelle.”

She clutched her suitcase handle in both hands. “Papa.”

“Kicked out of another one.”

She nodded, swallowing hard.

“How will we find another school in these times?”

That was her opening. “I want to live with you, Papa.”

“With me?” He seemed irritated and surprised. But wasn’t it normal for a girl to want to live with her father?

She took a step toward him. “I could work in the bookstore. I won’t get in your way.”

She drew in a sharp breath, waiting. Sound amplified suddenly. She heard people walking, the platforms groaning beneath them, pigeons flapping their wings overhead, a baby crying.

Of course, Isabelle.

Come home.

Her father sighed in disgust and walked away.

“Well,” he said, looking back. “Are you coming?”

*   *   *

Isabelle lay on a blanket in the sweet-smelling grass, a book open in front of her. Somewhere nearby a bee buzzed at a blossom; it sounded like a tiny motorcycle amid all this quiet. It was a blisteringly hot day, a week after she’d come home to Paris. Well, not home. She knew her father was still plotting to be rid of her, but she didn’t want to think about that on such a gorgeous day, in the air that smelled of cherries and sweet, green grass.

“You read too much,” Christophe said, chewing on a stalk of hay. “What is that, a romantic novel?”

She rolled toward him, snapping the book shut. It was about Edith Cavell, a nurse in the Great War. A hero. “I could be a war hero, Christophe.”

He laughed. “A girl? A hero? Absurd.”

Isabelle got to her feet quickly, yanking up her hat and white kid gloves.

“Don’t be mad,” he said, grinning up at her. “I’m just tired of the war talk. And it’s a fact that women are useless in war. Your job is to wait for our return.”

He propped his cheek in one hand and peered up at her through the mop of blond hair that fell across his eyes. In his yachting-style blazer and wide-legged white pants, he looked exactly like what he was—a privileged university student who was unused to work of any kind. Many students his age had volunteered to leave university and join the army. Not Christophe.

Isabelle hiked up the hill and through the orchard, out to the grassy knoll where his open-topped Panhard was parked.

She was already behind the wheel, with the engine running, when Christophe appeared, a sheen of sweat on his conventionally handsome face, the empty picnic basket hanging from his arm.

“Just throw that stuff in the back,” she said with a bright smile.

“You’re not driving.”

“It appears that I am. Now get in.”

“It’s my automobile, Isabelle.”

“Well, to be precise—and I know how important the facts are to you, Christophe—it’s your mother’s automobile. And I believe a woman should drive a woman’s automobile.”

Isabelle tried not to smile when he rolled his eyes and muttered “fine” and leaned over to place the basket behind Isabelle’s seat. Then, moving slowly enough to make his point, he walked around the front of the automobile and took his place in the seat beside her.

He had no sooner clicked the door shut than she put the automobile in gear and stomped on the gas. The automobile hesitated for a second, then lurched forward, spewing dust and smoke as it gathered speed.

“Mon Dieu, Isabelle. Slow down!”

She held on to her flapping straw hat with one hand and clutched the steering wheel with the other. She barely slowed as she passed other motorists.

“Mon Dieu, slow down,” he said again.

Certainly he must know that she had no intention of complying.

“A woman can go to war these days,” Isabelle said when the Paris traffic finally forced her to slow down. “I could be an ambulance driver, maybe. Or I could work on breaking secret codes. Or charming the enemy into telling me a secret location or plan. Remember that game—”

“War is not a game, Isabelle.”

“I believe I know that, Christophe. But if it does come, I can help. That’s all I’m saying.”

On the rue de l’Amiral de Coligny, she had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a lorry. A convoy from the Comédie Française was pulling out of the Louvre museum. In fact, there were lorries everywhere and uniformed gendarmes directing traffic. Sandbags were piled up around several buildings and monuments to protect from attack—of which there had been none since France joined the war.

Why were there so many French policemen out here?

“Odd,” Isabelle mumbled, frowning.

Christophe craned his neck to see what was going on. “They’re moving treasures out of the Louvre,” he said.

Isabelle saw a break in traffic and sped up. In no time, she had pulled up in front of her father’s bookshop and parked.

She waved good-bye to Christophe and ducked into the shop. It was long and narrow, lined from floor to ceiling with books. Over the years, her father had tried to increase his inventory by building freestanding bookcases. The result of his “improvements” was the creation of a labyrinth. The stacks led one this way and that, deeper and deeper within. At the very back were the books for tourists. Some stacks were well lit, some in shadows. There weren’t enough outlets to illuminate every nook and cranny. But her father knew every title on every shelf.

“You’re late,” he said, looking up from his desk in the back. He was doing something with the printing press, probably making one of his books of poetry, which no one ever purchased. His blunt-tipped fingers were stained blue. “I suppose boys are more important to you than employment.”

She slid onto the stool behind the cash register. In the week she’d lived with her father she’d made it a point not to argue back, although acquiescing gnawed at her. She tapped her foot impatiently. Words, phrases—excuses—clamored to be spoken aloud. It was hard not to tell him how she felt, but she knew how badly he wanted her gone, so she held her tongue.

“Do you hear that?” he said sometime later.

Had she fallen asleep?

Isabelle sat up. She hadn’t heard her father approach, but he was beside her now, frowning.

There was a strange sound in the bookshop, to be sure. Dust fell from the ceiling; the bookcases clattered slightly, making a sound like chattering teeth. Shadows passed in front of the leaded-glass display windows at the entrance. Hundreds of them.

People? So many of them?

Papa went to the door. Isabelle slid off her stool and followed him. As he opened the door, she saw a crowd running down the street, filling the sidewalks.