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“Rubbish,” Eve said flatly, and Lili smiled.

“Oh, it is, little daisy. It is. But do you want to be yanked out of Lille because they believe your soft little head has been all muddled by a handsome collaborator?”

Eve tapped ash off her cigarette, stomach rolling all over again. “Would Captain Cameron really think that of me?”

“Maybe not. He’s a decent chap, as you English like to say. But I’ve heard other English officers say such things before about women like us.”

“Shit,” Eve said again. The swearing, like the smoking, was getting easier. She looked up at Lili, who gazed down with a smile Eve couldn’t interpret. Practicality, sorrow, pride?

“C’est ainsi,” she said rather sadly. “What a bitch this business is, no?”

Yes, Eve acknowledged. But she also loved this business; it made her feel alive like nothing else, so she cloaked fear in a defiant shrug. “Someone has to do it. We’re good at it. Why s-shouldn’t it be us?”

Lili leaned down and kissed Eve’s forehead. Eve leaned her head against Lili’s knee, and the head of the Alice Network passed a hand over her hair. “Don’t go rushing off to climb into that profiteer’s bed,” she said softly. “I know you—you’re thinking to grit your teeth and get it over with. But put him off for a bit if you can. Because if we can bomb the kaiser into dust in a fortnight’s time, then it’s a whole new world. You might make it home without having to see Bordelon naked, after all.”

Eve prayed for both those things as Lili continued to stroke her hair the way Eve’s mother never had. She prayed harder than she’d ever prayed in her life—because right now she could be brave, but if she closed her eyes and remembered René’s mouth tasting her flesh, all she felt was sick.

CHAPTER 15

CHARLIE

May 1947

My mother was being careful, as if I was a cat with fur raised all along its back, ready to flee if startled. She kept reaching out to touch my hand or my shoulder, as if to check that I was still within arm’s reach. She kept up a light flow of chatter in the morning as we nibbled on the dry toast and coffee she’d ordered to the room, and proceeded packing up my clothes. “We’ll get some new things for you in Paris, after the Appointment. This pink suit is never going to be the same . . .”

I munched my toast, irritable. I didn’t like being chatty first thing in the morning, especially on next to no sleep, and I’d gotten out of the habit of having to make breakfast small talk. Eve was always too hungover to do anything more than glare until the clock hit noon, and Finn was a clam at any hour of the day. Except, apparently, at three in the morning. Charlie lass . . .

“Don’t slouch, ma chère,” my mother said.

I straightened. She smiled distractedly, reapplying her lipstick. Yesterday with her tear-filled eyes and her impulsive hugs she’d seemed softer than the mother I was used to. This morning, anchored by relief, she seemed to be armoring back up with every layer of lipstick into her usual glossy-shelled self. I reached out, touching her hand as she tucked her compact away. “Can we stay longer? Order more breakfast?” The Little Problem was for once making me ravenous instead of nauseated. Forget dry toast, I wanted Finn’s one-pan breakfast: bacon and bread and eggs all runny. Bacon . . .

“Don’t we want to watch our figures?” Maman patted her own waist, making a wry smile. “One must suffer to be beautiful, after all.”

“I’m not going to be beautiful any way you slice it,” I said. “So I want a goddamn croissant.”

She looked genuinely shocked. “Where did you learn that kind of language?”

From a crazy English hag who tried to shoot me. Oddly, I missed Eve.

“We’ll get croissants on the train,” Maman said, closing her suitcase. “We don’t want to be late.”

She already had a bellhop at the door. I ate the last bite of my toast, rising, and my mother flicked a crumb from the corner of my mouth and straightened my collar. Why did I feel like such a child in her presence?

You are a child, the nasty voice in my head whispered. That’s why you’re not fit to have a child. You don’t know anything.

Says who? the Little Problem answered.

Stop talking to me, I told my stomach. Stop making me feel guilty. I can’t do anything for you. I’m not fit to have you. Everyone says so.

What do you think? the L.P. answered. I didn’t have an answer, just a massive lump in my throat.

“Charlotte?”

“Coming.” I followed her out into the hall, toward the elevators. “Should we telephone Dad before we catch the train?” I managed to say.

My mother shrugged.

“Isn’t he worried?” I wondered if he would even talk to me when I came back. What if I had my Appointment and he still hated me? Still thought I was a whore? The lump in my throat doubled in size.

“If you must know, I didn’t tell him you’d taken off into London like a wild thing.” She caught my look. “Why would I? I didn’t want to worry him.”

“Well, you told him now, didn’t you?” We stepped into the elevator. “We’re days behind schedule. We won’t be home when he’s expecting us.”

My mother waited for the bellhop to join us with our bags, and pressed the button. “We’ll simply spend a week less than I planned in Paris afterward. We’ll be home on time, and your father doesn’t have to worry about anything.”

“Go home early? You promised me that after Vevey, we’d talk about Rose. About going to Limoges—”

“We’ll talk about that when we get home.” She smiled as the elevator began to move downward. “When the time is right.”

I stared at her. “When the time is right? It’s right now. We’re already here.”

“Ma chère—” A glance toward the bellhop, listening to our English babble with uncomprehending curiosity.

I ignored him. “We can’t just go home, not after everything I’ve found out.”

“It’s not for us to do, Charlotte. It’s a job for your father.”

“Why? I’ve been doing a pretty good job on my own, better than—”

“It’s not suitable,” my mother snapped. “You need to go home, not go off on another wild goose chase. Your father will take things up. I will ask him, later. When we get home.”

Later. Always later. Rage pooled in my stomach. “You promised.”

“I know, but—”

“Maman, this is important to me.” I touched her arm, trying to make her see. “Not to give up until—”

“I’m not giving up, chérie.”

“That’s what it looks like. How urgent is this going to be to you when we’re on the other side of the Atlantic again?” My voice rose. “When it’s not an easy promise you can make and then break, just to get me moving?”

The elevator chimed, doors sliding open. Maman glared at the curious bellhop, and he picked up our luggage and scuttled toward the hotel desk.

“Well?” I challenged.

“This is not a suitable place for such a discussion. Come along, and no more fuss, please.” Gliding out into the busy hotel court.