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“You are stripping Paris of its literary heritage!” Her words weren’t a shout. They were a low thrum, a hiss of steam, a venting of the same anger that burned in her eyes.

“Nonsense. Paris’s literary heritage runs far deeper than a few rare first editions or cultural collections.

Man cannot steal it away.” He trailed a finger over the spine of the slender tome that made the mismatched fourth leg the same height as the other three.

“I will try not to be offended on behalf of books everywhere that you or your mother chose to use one for such an ignominious task...but a library book? Have you no respect for other people’s property? ”

“Pardon?” Even as she spoke the word, bafflement in her tone, she moved over to where he crouched. Another breath of what could have been laughter slipped from her lips.

What would a real laugh sound like from her?

She didn’t crouch down, but she did shove a hand through her curls, pushing them back from her face. “Maman. She is the queen of improvisation, and she will use whatever is handy...which is always a book. Just a moment.”

She vanished from the room for a minute, returning with a folded-up piece of cardboard. “Here.”

He took the proffered substitute, braced the table up with one hand, and slid the book out with the other, replacing it with the cardboard. “Not thick enough.” He eased the table back down but then held it in place so the lamp didn’t take a tumble. “Do you have another piece?”

Another minute while she went to find more, and this time it did the trick.

Christian stood with a nod, Francis Bacon’s New Atlantis in his hand.

He flipped it open to the back to be certain it was the library’s copy and not one of their own—and indeed, the lending card and pocket were there on the inside back cover.

He frowned, though, at the date. “She checked this out over a year ago.”

The young woman shifted from one foot to the other. “Did she?”

No shock. No bafflement in her tone, not this time. If anything, amusement. He lifted his brows. “I realize not all libraries have the same loan periods, and that perhaps she renewed it, but...a year?”

A smile twitched in the corners of the girl’s lips, quickly tamped down.

“Order isn’t exactly the forte of the directors of the Library of Burned Books, either, I’m afraid.

It is no wonder Maman got along so well with them.

They stamped dates, yes, but in recent years they seldom if ever checked to see where books went after they were checked out. ”

Amusing. And horrifying. It was no wonder the place was in such disarray, if that was how they handled their loans. “I see. Well...one down. Seventeen to go.” His own lips twitched. “Should we check cupboards? Under beds? Perhaps a step stool has been built of them?”

Instead of granting him a real laugh, she stiffened. “Do I have the right to say you will not be pawing through our personal things, or will any objections be overruled anyway?”

He knew the look in her eyes—St. George, prepared to slay the dragon. A look he’d seen on many faces he admired, in people ready to face down injustice, whatever the odds.

He’d just never expected to be the dragon.

He drew in a deep breath and skirted the room again, aiming for the door.

“How about this? You have the list. Return the books to me when you find them. You may have a week. If you haven’t returned them by then.

..well, I’m afraid I’ll have to visit again and assist you with the search. ”

He glanced her way, not expecting any softening this time. Certainly not gratitude. He expected exactly what he saw—a stony facade barely covering the magma glowing underneath.

What surprised him was that she spoke as he reached for the latch. “Why? You have every library in Paris to sort through, haven’t you? Why are you so obsessed with a few books borrowed from this one?”

He paused, considered. Turned. “Because, mademoiselle , in every other library in Paris, the shelves are filled with collections—some books that are approved by the Reich, some that are rare and valuable, some that they are indifferent to, some that are on the verboten list. They require, as you say, sorting. Their patrons can be left mostly in the hands of the directors, who will eventually be given...guidelines for who can still enter.” He didn’t wince as he said it.

He’d had years to master his reactions, after all.

“But this library—it is unique. It is all verboten . Every author is banned. Every director is labeled an enemy of the Reich. Every subscriber and patron is immediately suspected of communism, Jewish heritage, or anti-Hitlerism.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Some of us read those books because they represent ideals of freedom and imagination.”

He bit back a smile. “As I said. Anti-Hitlerism.” He pulled open the door before she could think that through.

“I have superiors, mademoiselle . If I do not recall every one of those titles and question each and every patron still in Paris, I will be punished. And surely you won’t doubt that I am a selfish creature who wishes to avoid punishment?

” He stepped into the corridor and positioned his military-issue cap on his head, wishing for his fedora instead.

“One week, mademoiselle , or I will be knocking on your door again.”

He didn’t turn back to see her reaction. He merely flattened himself to the wall when quick footsteps sounded in the stairwell.

The feet, which belonged to a middle-aged couple hauling suitcases in each hand, came to a halt the moment they caught sight of him. The woman’s eyes went wide, wild. “Corinne? ?a va? ”

Corinne, was it? Apparently so—the young lady assured her neighbors that she was fine, that he was only there to fetch books her mother had borrowed from the library next door, that he was leaving .

He would have, without more than a nod, had a slower set of steps not been drawing near too, along with a thud-thud-thud that sounded very much like a suitcase being dragged up the steps.

He jogged down a few and caught sight of a child—a girl, perhaps eight years old—struggling with her luggage as she turned onto the landing.

Ignoring the squeaks from her parents, Christian moved to meet her, took the suitcase from her with a smile, and said, “Allow me. Young princesses such as you shouldn’t have to haul their own luggage.”

The girl giggled. Her parents didn’t. But that was all right. He jogged back up the stairs, sending them a raised brow. “This floor? Which door? I’ll just set it outside for you.”

“You needn’t, sir,” the father said. I don’t want you to know where we live, he might as well have shouted.

“Very well.” He held the suitcase out to Corinne. “ Mademoiselle will help you, I have no doubt. Au revoir , Corinne.”

She not only hadn’t given him permission to use her given name, she hadn’t even revealed it to him.

Was it petty of him to use it then? Yes.

But it was the only real victory he could claim from the visit, aside from the abused Bacon, so he took it.

He gave her a smile and left the case in her hands, tipped his hat to her neighbors, gave a wink to the little girl who was now tucked behind her mother, who perhaps hadn’t been taught to hate him yet, and moved down the stairs.

Sunlight and a warm breeze met him on the street.

As did Kraus, stepping out of the library and tapping a cigarette from a box of them.

He’d done that exactly once inside, and Christian had burst into full librarian mode, lecturing him for a solid ten minutes on the dangers of smoking in a room full of books and papers and magazines.

The soldat nodded a hello and lit up. Then frowned at the single slender book in his hands. “Thought you said the Bastien woman had a dozen and a half checked out.”

“Mm.” Hence why it had warranted a house call from him and not one of the men assigned to help him in his tasks.

No other single patron had so many titles listed beside her name in the disorganized records of this library.

“It seems the lady has left the country, and this is the only one her daughter could readily find.”

He didn’t mention that the daughter was the same girl they’d first caught inside the library. Not given the way Kraus had scowled at Corinne each time they caught sight of her on the street.

Kraus frowned. “So where are the rest?”

“There, probably. Her daughter claims she’s very disorganized. I’ve given her a few days to locate them before I help with the effort.”

Kraus nodded again and pulled the key from his pocket. “Back to the National Library, then?”

“Let me fetch my bag from inside first.” They’d returned here for lunch, solely because he’d needed the privacy his chosen headquarters provided him.

He’d thought to tick an easy item off his to-do list with the visit to the Bastien residence next door.

..but it seemed there were no easy tasks on this list, not really.

A few minutes later, briefcase in hand, Christian walked with Kraus to their car and then rode in silence back to the Biblioteque Nationale.

Crates upon crates of books had already been sorted through, their fates assigned.

..but they hadn’t yet put a dent in the collection.

As Paris’s premiere library, this one had been assigned as his top priority, after securing the Library of Burned Books.