When Brigitte awoke, it was only quarter past ten. She usually slept until noon, like the others. What had woken her?

A soft knocking at the door downstairs, that’s what.

She rose and grabbed her dressing gown, pulled it on as she hurried downstairs. She opened the door, and on the step was a small, homely young woman with large, fearful eyes. She clutched her coat beneath her throat.

“I have never been to a house of sin,” she squeaked.

Brigitte opened her mouth to answer, unsure what to say, but the girl blurted, “Madame Bouvier has a message for you. She regrets that she cannot meet for your spiritual journey at eleven. She will meet you at noon.” Despite the girl’s apprehension, she glanced past Brigitte, large eyes flitting for hints of sin. “She says to bring the verses.” Her eyes went to Brigitte. “If I were you, I would have them memorized. She is in a temper, mademoiselle.”

Something had gone wrong. Had she refused to take Tom in? Yet Brigitte had felt sure . . .

“Tell her I’ll be there,” Brigitte said.

Though it was only a fifteen-minute walk to the café, Brigitte left the house earlier, while the other three were still sleeping. She didn’t want to explain. She walked past the Mairie and kept walking to Le Port. She came to the church and stood in front, staring up at the bell tower. What could have gone wrong?

Someone informed.

Someone denounced.

Madame Bouvier had not taken him in. She had called for Brigitte to tell her off.

Tom never made it there. He was shot along the way. Only Rafael made it to tell the story.

Tom made another mistake. They were beating a man and—

“Tom,” she whispered.

He came from the sky and brought the sky with him.

The patch of freedom in her room, this entity, this marvel—he came from a place where there was still free will, and of his free will, he came.

“Mademoiselle?” said a kindly voice at her side. “May I—? Why, hello again, Mademoiselle Durand.”

She stared into the face of Father Eppinette.

“Father? Pray for my friend Tom. He is in trouble.”

Father Eppinette inclined his head. “I will pray, child.” He looked at her, concerned. “Is there anything else I can—?”

She hurried away.

He was safe. He had to be safe. The sight of the Caen Canal Bridge gave comfort. He was like that steel bridge. He was strong, he was resilient. She would not fear unless given reason. She would act like the resistant she was, and the core of the word was resist. She would resist bad thoughts. She would resist fear.

Guillemot, the waiter, recognized Brigitte and favored her with a smile as he approached her table, same as before, in the northeast corner.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle. How pleasant to see you. Will the madame be joining you?”

“Yes. Any minute.”

He sighed. “Alas, Adèle did not make the soup today. That brawler, Rondeau, did.”

“Rondeau uses too much salt?”

He sniffed. “Rondeau uses too much everything. He has the subtlety of a jackhammer. The soup should be finessed—but no. Rondeau assaults the soup. You will taste it to believe it, no charge, just enough to taste. You seem a sensible young woman. I collect witnesses to verify the violence done upon the soup.” He started to leave.

“How long have you known Madame Bouvier?” Brigitte said.

He paused and sent a swift glance about the café. It had only four or five other customers, all seated at the front.

“I know who you are,” Brigitte said softly. “What I don’t know is why she did it.”

The waiter wore a crisp, spotless white apron, out of place in folksy Bénouville. His black hair was perfectly oiled and groomed, his thin mustache precision trimmed. He stood for a moment, gazing out the window at the café across the street, whether in the grip of a distant memory or simply trying to decide how to answer, Brigitte could not guess.

“I do not know her story, mademoiselle, and I have not asked. I only know she saved my life.” He started away, then hesitated. “War does strange things, does it not? People come forward to show who they are in war.” He left for the kitchen.

Brigitte looked out the window at the bridge, and fell into a sort of daze, keeping her thoughts blank. Before she knew it, a small bowl appeared on the table.

“Voilà,” Guillemot said. “Taste, and be objective.”

Brigitte hardly dared to be objective. She could not bear to let him down. Tentatively, she took a sip of the red slurry with a swirl of orange froth and frowned in concentration. She looked up in surprise.

“Salt,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Yes!” Guillemot cried. “Go on.”

She took another taste, shuddered. “Garlic.”

“I weep. Continue.”

“Enough tarragon to flavor two pots, and an unwelcome presence of . . .” She tasted another sip and said, perplexed, “Fennel.” When he did not comment, she looked up.

Guillemot clasped his hands over his heart, held them out to her, pressed them on his heart again. When he found his voice, he said, “I am surprised you do not smash the bowl and denounce Rondeau a heretic. You gladden my heart.” To Madame Bouvier, who had appeared unnoticed, he said, “She gladdens my heart. Her sensitivities are your own, madame. ‘Unwelcome presence of fennel . . .’”

Madame Bouvier looked at the soup and said grimly, “Rondeau. Why can you not chain Adèle to the stove?”

Guillemot shook his head in dark agreement. “We have tried.” He then said briskly, “Tea?”

“Coffee?”

“No.”

The madame sighed. “Tea.”

With a last admiring look at Brigitte, Guillemot whisked the offensive bowl from her sight, then went to the kitchen.

Madame pulled out a chair, propped her cane against the wall, and sat. The blue eyes glanced at Brigitte as she settled in, arranging her lavender Bible and pocketbook. She wore the makeup of their first encounter, but beneath it was the pale, taut weariness of the last.

Brigitte said, “What happened?”

“The gladiator went to rescue the Christian. He was gone this morning.”

They were beating a man today . . .

“How very like him.” A swell of relief replaced dread, and she briefly closed her eyes. But when she opened them, nothing had changed on Madame Bouvier’s face. “Tell me,” she breathed.

“This morning a man came to my shop to bring a book for the book drive,” Madame said quietly. “He is stationed at the Mairie, Resistance posing as Milice. Brigitte . . . the gladiator has been taken.”

. . . Mayday, this is Angel three. I’m hit.

“I wish I could tell you he is in French custody. Vile as they are, as little faith as we owe them, the Milice are still French and one cannot but hope they will remember it. But I am afraid he was turned over to the Gestapo. He has been transferred to headquarters in Caen. I am very . . . Brigitte?”

Guillemot!

The poor creature! How white!

Get some water. Brigitte, look at me. Take hold of yourself. She has had bad news, Guillemot.

Here—she must put her head between her knees.

It is undignified . . .

It works, madame, when one is faint. There you are, my dear. Breathe deeply, mademoiselle.

I will not let him die.

Of course you won’t, my dear.

I will get him released.

Of course you will. A woman with such a palate can do anything. Breathe deeply. There you are, my dear . . .

Brigitte set out her best navy-blue dress with the silvery sash. It was no Coco Chanel, but it was classically cut, stylish, and fit perfectly. She set out blue pumps, pearl earrings, a pearl necklace, and an original—if worn—Elsa Schiaparelli jacket. She’d worn this on her last day at the American embassy. She had no stockings—silk, nylon, or otherwise. No matter. She had dyed her legs last week, and it had not yet faded. Marie-Josette had penciled in a seam on the back of her legs. The faded line was enough to trace over.

Wearing her slip, she went to work in front of the mirror. Light makeup soon hid most of the pallor and the bruise at the corner of her mouth. She styled her hair, coaxing dark curls into place, and dabbed her wrists, temples, and neck with rose water. She slipped into her clothing and surveyed the effect.

Colette appeared in the reflection of the mirror, at the bedroom door. “Marie-Josette told me of his arrest. Where are you going?”

Brigitte applied lipstick, rubbed her lips together, and tucked the tube into her pocketbook. She went to the top drawer of her dresser, rummaged beneath lingerie, and found Grandfather’s old, black leather purse with the clasp. It was all the money she had: 277 francs and some change. She put the purse in her pocketbook.

“I am going to Caen. I will not be back. Not unless I come back with him.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know. I will start at the Rousseau Cimenterie.”

She picked up the small suitcase she had packed, tucked her pocketbook under her arm, and passed Colette as she left the room.

Marie-Josette waited at the back door. She wrapped her arms around Brigitte. “Be safe,” she whispered. “Tell the Matterhorn we said hello.”

Simone stood with arms folded in the kitchen doorway, looking on with a half smile. “Good luck, Brigitte.”

“I love you all,” Brigitte suddenly said. “Go to Father Eppinette for me, will you? Have him light candles. Have him say prayers.”

Colette appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “I will go. Good luck.”