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Rebecca looked at Claire’s face, the lines harder than she’d remembered from strain and hunger, and suddenly, more than anything, she wanted to touch her again.

Even though she knew it wouldn’t change anything.

Rebecca closed the space between them and stood in front of her, so close she could feel the warmth from her body and smell the faint, familiar scent of her skin.

She leaned in and grazed her lips against Claire’s, and after a moment, Claire kissed her back—hesitantly at first, then easing into something softer, more tender.

Time stretched, and the kiss deepened, turning to something sad and hungry.

Something that felt like goodbye. Rebecca wanted to stay in that moment, drag her lips across every inch of Claire’s skin, memorize her body so she could take it with her.

Claire gasped against Rebecca’s mouth, a sob caught just in the back of her throat.

Then she pulled away, so fast it left Rebecca reeling, eyes down, her bruised lips hidden behind her fingertips.

“Good night, Rebecca.”

Rebecca nodded, shaken and heartsick. Her mouth tasted like salt water. “Good night, Claire.”

She walked out of the pantry and through the kitchen, passing the two maquisards smoking on the stairs, and returned to the empty bedroom. Now, finally, she felt it—fear, vibrating under her skin. She shook her head, trying to bring back that clarity that had saved her life so many times before.

Fear makes you stupid , she told herself. Stupid people die.

Rebecca picked up the coat from the chair where she had abandoned it a few minutes before. She put it on, every nerve in her body buzzing like a wire.

She stood by the window, peering out into the darkness.

Behind the house, just beyond the frostbitten vegetable garden, was a shed, and inside the shed, she could see the yellow glow of a single lamp.

Henry was nowhere to be seen, but Rebecca could make out Roger’s stooped shape silhouetted in the doorway, smoking a cigarette in the cold.

There was a knife on one of the bedside tables, lying next to a half-eaten apple. She picked it up and slipped it into her coat pocket. After a moment, Roger disappeared back inside the shed.

Rebecca threw open the window as a rush of freezing air swept across her face like needles.

Moving fast before she lost her nerve, she straddled the windowsill, one leg inside the room, the other dangling in the open air.

To the left of the window was a thick, woody vine, now stripped bare of its leaves by the cold.

Rebecca gave it a tug and found that it held firmly to the stone wall.

She grabbed hold of the vine with her good arm and began to climb down.

Right away, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake.

Fear had made her forget the pain in her shoulder, but now it erupted to the surface with a new urgency.

She tried to fight through it, but she was still weak, and her stitches strained with every movement.

She hung on for one final moment, gritting her teeth against the pain, then lost her purchase and fell.

The air left her lungs all at once as she hit the ground, and she lay there for several agonizing seconds, willing herself to breathe.

She raised herself up carefully and took stock. Her wrist was tender, and she had torn her stitches, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. She got to her feet and made her way slowly to the shed, remembering to pull the leaves from her hair just before she stepped through the door.

Stay sharp , she told herself. Stay alive.

Henry was there, clutching his pack like a life raft. Roger looked up from his cigarette as she walked in.

“The hell do you want?”

She nodded toward Henry. “Claire wants to talk to him.”

Roger chewed on something as he regarded her. “Why doesn’t she come out here herself if she wants to talk to him so badly?”

Rebecca shrugged. “You’d have to ask her.”

Roger spat on the ground and didn’t reply.

“Look, I can tell her she needs to come out here herself, but then she’ll be pissed off with both of us instead of just me. Your choice.”

Roger sneered. A fleck of something dark clung to one of his teeth. “Fine.” He looked at Henry. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll take him,” Rebecca said, too eagerly. “Lucas has something he wants to show you out front.”

“Lucas, eh?” Roger squinted at her, and she knew that somehow, she had made a misstep. He spat again, and a strand of yellow spittle clung to his chin. He wiped it away with his sleeve, then cocked his head. “Come here.”

Rebecca took one step forward. Inside her coat pocket, her fingers curled tightly around the wooden handle of the knife. She could feel her pulse in her fingertips, but whether it was fear or focus making her blood pump faster, she couldn’t tell anymore.

“Whose coat is that?”

Merde.

“I don’t know. I just threw it on.”

“Mmph. You planning on going somewhere?” Before she could react, Roger reached out and snatched her by the coat, shaking her hard.

“Hey!” Henry shouted.

Rebecca pulled the knife from the coat and slashed wildly, catching Roger across the cheek. He cried out and released her, pressing his hand to his bleeding face.

“Bitch!”

“Run!” Rebecca commanded. She turned to flee, but found her exit blocked by an enormous man holding a gun. Pierre , Rebecca remembered. They called him Pierre.

“Ah, no.” Pierre smiled apologetically. “So sorry, lovely girl. Nobody is leaving. Put that down.” He looked at the knife in Rebecca’s hand. Rebecca dropped it.

Pierre turned to Roger. “You all right?”

“She cut me! Cette putain!” Roger shouted, still holding his cheek.

Pierre said nothing, and Rebecca saw what might have been the hint of a smirk tug at the corners of his mouth, as if he found the whole thing amusing. He looked at Henry, and then at Rebecca, and finally back at Roger.

“Claire says it’s time.”