Madame gathered the men together and introduced them—there were three RAF pilots and an American flier. The three Brits had been there for days, waiting for the American, who had arrived yesterday. Eduardo would be leading them over the mountains in the morning.

“It’s good to meet you,” one of them said, shaking Isabelle’s hand as if she were a water pump. “You’re just as beautiful as we’ve been told.”

The men started talking all at once. Gaëtan moved easily into their midst, as if he belonged with them. Isabelle stood beside Madame Babineau and handed her the envelope of money that should have been delivered almost two weeks earlier. “I’m sorry about the delay.”

“You had a good excuse. How are you feeling?”

Isabelle moved her shoulder, testing it. “Better. In another week, I’ll be ready to make the crossing again.”

Madame handed Isabelle the Gauloises. Isabelle took a long drag and exhaled, studying the men who were now in her charge. “How are they?”

“See the tall, thin one—nose like a Roman emperor?”

Isabelle couldn’t help smiling. “I see him.”

“He claims to be a lord or duke or something. Sarah in Pau said he was trouble. Wouldn’t follow a girl’s orders.”

Isabelle made a note of that. It wasn’t a rarity, of course, fliers who didn’t want to take orders from women—or girls or dames or broads—but it was always a trial.

She handed Isabelle a crumpled, dirt-stained letter. “One of them gave me this to give to you.”

She opened it quickly, scanned the contents. She recognized Henri’s sloppy handwriting:

J—your friend survived her German holiday, but she has guests.

Do not stop by. Will watch out for her.

Vianne was fine—she had been released after questioning—but another soldier, or soldiers, was billeted there. She crumpled the paper and tossed it in the fire. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or more worried. Instinctively, her gaze sought out Gaëtan, who was watching her as he spoke to an airman.

“I see the way you’re watching him, you know.”

“Lord big nose?”

Madame Babineau barked out a laugh. “I am old but not blind. The young handsome one with the hungry eyes. He keeps looking at you, too.”

“He’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Ah.”

Isabelle turned to the woman who had become her friend in the past two years. “I’m afraid to let him go, which is crazy with all the dangerous things I do.”

The look in Madame’s dark eyes was both knowing and compassionate. “I would tell you to be careful if these were ordinary times. I would point out that he is young and engaged in a dangerous business and young men in danger can be fickle.” She sighed. “But we are cautious about too much these days, and why add love to the list?”

“Love,” Isabelle said quietly.

“I will add this, though, since I am a mother and we can’t help ourselves: A broken heart hurts as badly in wartime as in peace. Say good-bye to your young man well.”

*   *   *

Isabelle waited for the house to go quiet—or as quiet as a room could be with men sleeping on the floor, snoring, rolling over. Moving cautiously, she eased out of her blankets and picked her way through the main room and went outside.

Stars flickered overhead, the sky immense in this dark landscape. Moonlight illuminated the goats, turned them into silver-white dots on the hillside.

She stood at the wooden fence, staring out. She didn’t have long to wait.

Gaëtan came up behind her, put his arms around her. She leaned back into him. “I feel safe in your arms,” she said.

When he didn’t respond, she knew something was wrong. Her heart sank. She turned slowly, looked up at him. “What is it?”

“Isabelle.” The way he said it frightened her. She thought, No, don’t tell me. Whatever it is, don’t tell me. In the silence, noises became noticeable—the bleating of goats, the beating of her heart, the tumbling of a rock down a distant hillside.

“That meeting. The one we were going to in Carriveau when you found the airman?”

“Oui?” she said. She had studied him so carefully in the past few days, watched every nuance of emotion cross his face, and she knew whatever he was going to say, it wouldn’t be good.

“I’m leaving Paul’s group. Fighting … a different way.”

“Different how?”

“With guns,” he said quietly. “And bombs. Anything we can find. I’m joining a group of guerrilla partisans who live in the woods. My job is explosives.” He smiled. “And stealing bomb parts.”

“Your past should help you there.” Her teasing fell flat.

His smile faded. “I can’t just deliver papers anymore, Iz. I need to do more. And … I won’t see you for a while, I think.”

She nodded, but even as she moved her head in agreement, she thought: How? How will I walk away and leave him now? and she understood what he had been afraid of from the start.

The look he gave her was as intimate as a kiss. In it, she saw her own fear reflected. They might never see each other again. “Make love to me, Gaëtan,” she said.

Like it’s the last time.

*   *   *

Vianne stood outside the Hôtel Bellevue in the pouring rain. The windows of the hotel were fogged; through the haze she could see a crowd of gray-green field uniforms.

Come on, Vianne, you’re in it now.

She squared her shoulders and opened the door. A bell tinkled gaily overhead, and the men in the room stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her. Wehrmacht, SS, Gestapo. She felt like a lamb going to slaughter.

At the desk, Henri looked up. Seeing her, he came out from behind the front desk and moved swiftly through the crowd toward her.

He took her by the arm, hissing, “Smile.” She tried to comply. She wasn’t sure whether she succeeded.

He led her to the front desk, where he let go of her arm. He was saying something—laughing as if at some joke—as he took his place by the heavy black phone and cash register. “Your father, correct?” he said loudly. “A room for two nights?”

She nodded numbly.

“Here, let me show you the room we have available,” he said at last.

She followed him out of the lobby and into the narrow hallway. They went past a small table set with fresh fruit (only the Germans could afford such an extravagance) and a water closet that was empty. At the end of the corridor, he led her up a narrow set of stairs and into a room so small there was only a single bed and a blacked-out window.

He closed the door behind them. “You shouldn’t be here. I sent you word that Isabelle was fine.”

“Oui, merci.” She took a deep breath. “I need identity papers. You were the only person I could think of who might be able to help me.”

He frowned. “That’s a dangerous request, Madame. For whom?”

“A Jewish child in hiding.”

“Hiding where?”

“I don’t think you want to know that, do you?”

“No. No. Is it a safe place?”

She shrugged, her answer obvious in the silence. Who knew what was safe anymore?

“I hear Sturmbannführer Von Richter is billeted with you. He was here first. He’s a dangerous man. Vindictive and cruel. If he caught you—”

“What can we do, Henri, just stand by and watch?”

“You remind me of your sister,” he said.

“Believe me, I am not a brave woman.”

Henri was quiet for a long while. Then he said, “I’ll work on getting you the blank papers. You’ll have to learn to forge them yourself. I am too busy to add to my duties. Practice by studying your own.”

“Thank you.” She paused, looking at him, remembering the note he had delivered to her all those months ago—and the assumptions Vianne had made about her sister at the time. She knew now that Isabelle had been doing dangerous work from the beginning. Important work. Isabelle had shielded Vianne from this knowledge to protect her, even though it meant looking like a fool. She had traded on the fact that Vianne would easily believe the worst of her.