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“Heard you were with one of the groups out in Lyon,” the boy next to her said.

“That’s right.”

“Heard you know André.” There was something about his tone that set Rebecca’s teeth on edge.

“Knew him. Yes.”

The boy kept his eyes on the table in front of him. Rebecca looked at Claire.

“André was Roger’s cousin,” Claire said evenly.

Roger took a swig from his mug. “André was a good man. Died for the cause.” There were nods and murmurs of agreement around the table.

This was more than Rebecca could take. She sipped her beer. “André betrayed every man and woman he fought beside, and now they’re all dead.”

Silence fell over the room. Claire sighed and shook her head.

Roger stared at Rebecca, mouth open. She stared back, wondering if he was about to strike her, or spit in her face.

“Except you, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re all dead, except for you.”

Rebecca held his gaze. “That’s right.”

Roger’s face rearranged itself into an unpleasant smile. “That must be one hell of a story.”

She looked at Claire, but found no help there.

“Tell us,” he said.

Rebecca did not look at Roger. She looked only at Claire, and Claire looked back, waiting. She felt a pulse of danger.

“I was supposed to meet André at a café outside Lyon. But André never came. I decided to leave, and that’s when I realized I was being followed. They captured me and took me to a room where I was interrogated. And then I escaped.”

“Escaped how?” Roger’s mouth was full as he spoke, and a speck of food flew from his mouth and landed on the table between them.

“I killed the guard.”

“How?” Roger demanded.

Now Rebecca did look at him.

“How did you kill him?” Roger smiled around the food in his mouth.

“Her,” Rebecca corrected. “The guard was a woman. I stabbed her through the throat with her own knife.”

Roger’s face twisted. “They didn’t tie you up?”

Rebecca shifted her eyes to Claire, who raised her eyebrows expectantly. Well?

She took another sip of her beer. “I guess they thought they had beaten me enough that I no longer posed a threat. As it turns out, they were wrong.”

The bird-faced girl grinned. A soft chuckle made its way around the table.

“Where did they beat you?” Roger was no longer smiling.

“What?”

He shrugged, and Rebecca could see the menace settling into his wiry frame. “You said they beat you. But I don’t see a single bruise. Where did they beat you?”

Rebecca felt the mood at the table shift as the laughter died away.

Stupid , she thought. She should have held on to her scars and her bruises.

She should have worn them like a badge of honor instead of letting Lydia gather them up, tucking them out of sight with her magic words.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Claire lean forward.

Rebecca inched toward Roger until they were uncomfortably close, as close as lovers. She could smell the sour hunger stink of his breath.

“I could show you the marks.” She ran her fingers delicately along Roger’s wrist, a dare. “But we would have to go someplace private.” She winked. Someone whistled softly.

Roger was the first to break eye contact. He leaned back in his chair, and the room seemed to give a collective sigh of relief.

“Fuck the Huns,” said the man to Rebecca’s right, smiling.

“To the Maquis!” cried another, and the rest of the table raised their mugs.

“The Maquis!” they shouted happily. “Vive la France!”

The bird-faced girl refilled Rebecca’s mug. Rebecca looked at Claire and saw that she was still watching her.

“I could use some fresh air,” Rebecca said.

···

Rebecca slipped out the back door and into the damp November air. Her breath plumed around her, but the bracing cold felt good after the heavy, wet laundry stink of the house. After a moment, Claire appeared beside her.

She noticed how careful Claire was to keep her distance. There had been a time when they were never more than a few inches apart, always drifting toward one another like magnets. Now it seemed like Claire was doing her best not to fall back into Rebecca’s gravity.

“Not exactly a diplomat, are you?” Claire said.

“Was I ever?”

Claire sipped her beer. “Roger won’t forget what you said about André. He’ll make trouble for you.”

“André was a coward and a traitor. I wasn’t going to sit there and listen to them toast him like some fallen hero.”

“He got caught and he cracked,” Claire said reasonably. “Everyone cracks. You know that.”

“I didn’t.”

Claire pursed her lips. “Right. Of course.”

Rebecca didn’t care for Claire’s tone. “What?”

Claire looked at her with those blue-green eyes that seemed to see through every kind of lie.

“You forget. Lucas cut that blouse off you last night so he could take the bullet out. There was blood everywhere, but I saw clearly enough. Other than that hole in your shoulder, there’s not a scratch on you. ”

“As scratches go, it’s a good one.”

Claire frowned. “You lied. I don’t know why, but you did.”

Rebecca could feel the tension between them begin to simmer. “Is there something you want to ask me?”

Claire stared her down, her eyes steady and unblinking. “I’m saying you may have been captured two days ago, but you didn’t take any beating.”

“You’re saying I collaborated with the Nazis in exchange for my freedom.” Even hearing herself say the words made Rebecca feel sick.

“What would you say, if you were in my position?” Claire stepped closer, anger making her forget to keep her distance.

“You would say that anyone who leaves a Nazi interrogation room with air in their lungs probably talked, and that anyone who talks should be shot and left on the side of the road as a warning to others.”

Claire was right, of course. It didn’t even matter that she hadn’t turned on her coconspirators. Rebecca knew what it looked like. She stared into Claire’s eyes and saw how hard they were, how cold. And for the very first time, she understood the gravity of her situation.

“I’m not a traitor.”

Claire looked out over the rolling patchwork of gray and gold and said nothing.

“Fine, then. If you want, I’ll go.”

Claire looked at her and sighed. “You can’t go.”

Rebecca felt something cold drop into the pit of her stomach like a coin in a well.

“Why not?”

“Pierre and Lucas took your car.”

“They what?” Rebecca’s voice rose. “Where did they take it?”

“They had business in town. They should be back in a day or two.”

She felt her face go hot. “Who said they could take my car?”

“Well, Pierre is a communist, so he feels that whatever belongs to one of us belongs to the Resistance.”

Rebecca snorted.

“And more importantly,” Claire said, “it’s not your car. It’s mine.”

Rebecca stared at her. “Like hell it is. I bought that car.”

“With my money.”

“It was our …that’s my —” Rebecca sputtered. Claire watched her, arms folded across her chest. “Do you want me to go, or not?”

“I want you to tell me the truth,” Claire said.

“I told you the truth. I was captured. I escaped. There’s nothing more to tell.

” Rebecca stepped forward and pressed her forehead against Claire’s, taking her face in her hands, and Claire let her.

Rebecca felt her heart ache like an old wound.

“Mon c?ur,” she whispered, “I would never lie to you. Never.”

Claire looked into her eyes, and Rebecca thought she saw something there she recognized. A softness, hidden behind all that armor. For one moment, Rebecca was sure that everything would be all right.

Then Claire shook her head, pushing Rebecca away, and the cold air rushed to fill the space between them.

“You have until Pierre and Lucas return to think about your story,” she said. “I thought I owed you that much.”

Rebecca stared at Claire’s face, at the splotches that had crept into her neck and cheeks. “And if my story doesn’t change?”

But she already knew the answer.

Mon c?ur , she wanted to say, you know me.

She wanted to hold her like she did whenever they’d have a fight, so tight and so close that Claire would have no choice but to relent, and love her again.

She felt fear, yes, deep in her bone marrow, because she knew Claire and knew what she would do.

But more than that, she felt a horrible sadness—not for herself, but for Claire, who would do this terrible, incomprehensible thing, without question.

She would kill Rebecca, rip open her own chest for the Resistance, and never share that burden with another soul. And that broke Rebecca’s heart.

“They’ll be back in two days,” Claire said. She opened the door to go inside, no longer looking at Rebecca. “You should tell me what really happened before then.”

Claire walked through the door, and Rebecca was alone, watching her breath as it turned to vapor in the November air.