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Seven

Corinne sipped her café au lait and flipped another page in her book.

She didn’t need to glance at her watch to know that Liana wasn’t due to join her quite yet, but even so, she’d been ready to leave the university and chase away the thoughts nipping at her with some coffee before she smiled for her new friend.

She shouldn’t have visited Maman’s office this morning. She’d known it was a bad idea, but she’d given in. She’d unlocked the familiar door. Breathed in the familiar scent of typewriter ribbon ink, old books, the rubber of bands that would no doubt dry rot before anyone used them again.

Her absence wasn’t supposed to be so long. She’d only been going to England for a few months to set up their little fledgling spy network on that end, to solidify associations with the British intelligence agency at Bletchley Park, before tension could turn to war...they’d thought.

They’d thought, with France’s army planted at the Maginot Line, that there would be time for her to take care of things there and come home.

They’d never dreamed the Germans would bypass the Line and come through the Ardennes.

They’d never dreamed that France would surrender so quickly, that Paris would be declared an Open City, unprotected, not fought for or over, that the government would retreat.

They’d certainly never dreamed that an enraged English fleet would threaten to sink French vessels that didn’t destroy themselves, to keep them from enemy hands—and that they’d follow through with it.

The alliance they’d counted on, she and Maman and Oncle Georges, had gone up in smoke with the French fleet at Mers-el-Kébir two weeks ago, when the Brits attacked and sank them to keep them from German hands. Until then, she’d still hoped. Hoped Maman would be able to sneak back into France.

What hope did she have now?

Corinne took another sip of her coffee, willing her mind onto the pages of her novel.

Instead of thoughts of Maman, trapped in England, even though Corinne was beginning to wonder if this little spy network of theirs was even worth the risk.

Instead of thoughts of Christian Bauer, who would be invading her flat again that night to search for more books she didn’t have—the embodiment of that risk.

She tapped a finger against the edges of Quinzinzinzili , but even the post-cataclysmic tale of science fiction wouldn’t distract her thoughts.

She could think only of how the edges were worn smooth, soft as velvet—something she hadn’t had time to fake on the two new books she’d handed to Bauer yesterday.

She’d slammed them against corners, flipped the pages over and again, opened them wide so the spines creaked and groaned in protest. She’d glued new library pockets to the inside back covers, had creased the cards before she tried to remember which patrons she’d heard talking about the titles over the years.

Were Kraus the one to examine them, they would have passed inspection. At least given the disarray of the library’s records. But Bauer? He’d known something was wrong, even if he hadn’t called her on it then and there.

He would. She knew he would. She’d hoped and prayed he would simply glance at the titles and mark them off the list without looking any further, but no. Of course not.

And so she’d been forced to stand there while he noted whichever telltale signs she’d either left or neglected in her haste, pretending Maman had caught her at the chocolates again, determined to escape punishment.

Giving up on the novel, she tucked a slip of ribbon in the pages and closed the cover.

Abraham was back. That news had kept her up half the night too. Was that good? Bad?

Bad—it must be bad. He ought to have known better. Given that the Library of Burned Books had been the very first library to be put under Nazi control, it stood to reason that its directors, patrons, and subscribers would be of interest to them too.

She would have to pay him a visit soon. Make certain he and his wife were well. That they had food. Books.

Her eyes burned. How were they to provide for themselves?

When she’d inquired at the Sorbonne that morning, the pinch-lipped secretary had told her what she’d feared would be the case.

One of the provisions for reopening was that anyone not French-born of two French parents was to be expelled at once.

No Abraham teaching about poetry and philosophy. No Josef giving lectures on history. No Earnst debating theology with Catholics, Protestants, Jews, and atheists, forcing them all to think outside the boxes of their own understanding.

Juste ciel, if she didn’t interrupt her thoughts soon, she’d end up crying.

“Corinne, bonjour !” Liana gusted into the second chair at the tiny table, the serious light in her eyes belying the bright smile.

She wore a fashionable ensemble, complete with a wispy yellow scarf over her dark hair and tied in a chic knot under her chin.

She leaned in for the obligatory exchange of cheek kisses.

Corinne was suddenly very aware of the circles under her own eyes from yet another night with too much worry and too little sleep. Of the way tiny little lines always showed around her eyes on such mornings. Of how tired her muscles had felt as she walked here from the Métro stop.

Oh, to be twenty again.

“Do they have croissants still? I’m starving.” Liana made the declaration flippantly, motioning for a waiter, but she clearly heard herself. She winced, lowering her hand. “It’s going to get worse, isn’t it? Worse than no butter, no pastry.”

Corinne’s lips would offer only the tightest of smiles. “To quote your father, You are too young to remember the last war ,” she said. “The hungry years. But if it drags on...I imagine so.”

Liana blew out a breath, put in her order for coffee and a croissant when the waiter came over, and then leaned back in her chair, eyes on Corinne.

“Forced to be in by nine each night, yet still you look exhausted.” Her brows lifted, along with the corners of her mouth.

“Or perhaps you were at an all-night cabaret?”

Corinne rolled her eyes at that suggestion. “Hardly. Who can afford those things now?”

Chuckling, Liana reached for Corinne’s book and slid it around to face her, presumably so she could read the cover. Her brows knit. “What kind of title is that?”

“I have no idea yet. It’s science fiction.” Corinne let her mouth twist. “I’m not certain how far I’ll get. The premise is that there’s a world-wide war—another one—and a Japanese scientist develops a chemical reaction that causes mass extinction.”

Liana pushed the book away as if it were the poison. “I think you ought to be reading a nice romance story instead.”

“I do believe you’re right.” When the waiter returned to fill Liana’s cup, she let him refill hers too. Then she called up a smile. “So your father mentioned a man called Michel?”

They chatted about simple things like love and how you ever knew when someone was the one you wanted to marry while they ate and sipped.

And Corinne smiled because, a year ago, those were the complicated questions.

Would she ever meet someone who made her heart come alive, as Maman’s and Papa’s had with each other? How would she know?

Now she wished those dreams were the ones she could sigh over, long for.

Liana leaned closer. “A few of us are having a...poetry reading. Tomorrow evening. It will be over before curfew, of course—in the basement of a building two streets over, owned by the family of one of my friends. You could come.”

Corinne trailed a fingertip along the rim of her empty-again cup. “Poetry.”

The tilt of Liana’s head said it was definitely not poetry. “Rousing old French poetry. You know the kind—the verses that speak of our heroes of old.”

The ones who spoke of freedom. Of revolution.

Of honor. “I do love that poetry,” she said slowly.

Letting her fingers drop from the cup, she nudged the top of her fork a bit to the left, her knife a bit to the right on the serviette, so that their bottoms touched.

A subtle V , like the ones people made with their Métro tickets, with their feet as they sat, with paint whenever they dared deface a Nazi poster.

“I don’t know if I can make a reading tomorrow night though. ”

On the one hand, she wanted to keep her finger on the pulse of such things, especially if it would be students at the meeting, so close to campus.

But if Oncle Georges found out—and he would—that she was part of some sort of resistance that he hadn’t preapproved.

.. She didn’t want to jeopardize the work she’d already agreed to.

Not to mention she didn’t fancy being the sole professor in a group of students.

“Liana...I didn’t think to correct your father’s assumptions the other night, but you ought to know—I’m a decade older than you.

I teach at the Sorbonne, I don’t attend. ”

For a moment, Liana’s eyes went wide. Then she grinned. “Even better. Having a professor among us will lend us credence.”

Corinne sighed a laugh, shook her head. “I really can’t tomorrow though. Will there be other meetings?”

“Probably. I hope so.” Liana arched her brows. “Why can’t you make tomorrow? Do you have a date?”

Corinne rolled her eyes. “No. I haven’t...my mother accuses me of having been too focused on my education for too long. I’ve not taken time for such things.”

The purse of Liana’s lips was playful again. “Well we can’t have that. Michel has a handsome friend, older than us—he’s the studious type, just received his doctorate last spring, I think.”

“In what?” Not that she was interested in being set up, but she couldn’t resist the question.