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Twenty-Two

December was the perfect time for a secret wedding.

Even in an occupied city, no one thought anything of families bustling into a church with packages in their arms, or of young women laughing together or a child bouncing along like he had rubber balls in place of feet.

Tonight, three days after Ackermann’s attack, Corinne didn’t have to think about the flat they’d only stayed in long enough to put it to rights before seeking refuge with the Moreaux, or the looming threat of the oberstleutnant .

Tonight, she could focus solely on the family they would create.

A secret wedding was, by necessity, small. The only guests would be the Moreaux, Abraham and his wife, and Oncle Georges. They all arrived separately at the church, spaced ten minutes apart, with Father Serres letting each party in with a grin and a nod.

As Corinne stood in the little back room, craning to try to see herself fully in the handheld mirror Liana had smuggled in, she was too keenly aware of the people who weren’t there.

Josef. Maman. She’d fought back tears more than once that day already, wishing her mother were the one helping her get ready along with Babette Moreau.

Wishing she were there to hug her and whisper how happy she was for them.

Wishing she had words of approval for her choice—all her choices.

Wishing Josef had been there for Christian, doing the same for him.

“You look beautiful.” Babette smoothed one of the seams that had been put in so quickly to make the dress fit right. “Worthy of Vogue .”

Corinne laughed. That part was strangely true.

She’d been all set to wear either her favorite Sunday dress or to remake Maman’s wedding dress—which had been simple and outdated even in 1918.

But Hugo had burst into the Moreau home with a garment bag and an impish grin.

It seemed that some woman with more money than sense had thrown a fit at one of the boutiques and insisted that the wedding gown underway was all wrong and had to be thrown out and started over.

..and so he’d taken the liberty of trading the frazzled dressmaker some black-market chocolate for it.

It wasn’t the gown she ever would have dared to choose—because it was made of too fine a silk, covered with too beautiful a lace, drew too much attention to curves and waist. And in any other time, the price tag would have been far, far too steep.

But she’d accepted the gift, and she let Babette alter it for her, and now she stood in it with her hair carefully coiffed and her makeup perfectly applied and happy nerves fluttering like tiny acrobats in her stomach.

A knock sounded on the door a second before it opened, and Oncle Georges stepped in.

He had a suitcase in his hand, one too familiar now to bring anything but a smile to her face.

He motioned for space to be cleared on the table.

“I thought the bride might appreciate a special call from her mother.”

“Oh.” Tears flooded her eyes, and she had to blink them back quickly to avoid smearing her mascara. “Really? Even though it’s not our usual time?”

Her uncle grinned. “Exceptions can always be made, mon chouchou . You think she wouldn’t be here, however she could, on your wedding day?”

“Here.” Liana handed her a handkerchief as Georges set up the radio.

Corinne was nearly back in control by the time she took the receiver from him and held it to her ear. The tone of the static told her they were connected. “Hello? This is Blanche for Evergreen. Over.”

“Blanche.” Even through the miles and the airwaves and the distortion, she could hear the happy tears in Maman’s voice. “This is Evergreen. The dragon slayer sent a report. Not too detailed, but we got the gist. I...I am so happy for you, Blanche. So sad I’m not there. Over.”

“Me too.” Her heart twisted and ached—and then went calm. Because Maman was here. Just as Christian still would be, whatever happened. “But I’ve been thinking of you all day. Remembering yours. You’ve been here with me, and it is so, so good to hear your voice today. Over.”

As always, they could only talk for a few minutes, and what they said was vague and coded. But it didn’t matter. Just having her mother’s voice here, now, lit peace inside her.

After they ended the call and stashed the radio, Liana handed her a bouquet of dried flowers.

Oncle Georges walked her down the aisle as Babette quietly sang for them.

Wings of promise and peace fluttered inside her as she met Christian’s gaze, where he stood waiting for her.

She smiled when he reached out to place a steadying, calming hand on the top of his son’s still-bouncing head.

So precious, those two Bauers. And hers, both of them.

The stained glass windows were shrouded, their stories covered by black fabric and cardboard and protective wire.

But that only meant that each lit candle kept its light close by, lighting up the otherwise dark church like stars.

She heard Liana whisper, “This is so romantic!” from her place at Corinne’s side, and she had to agree.

A secret wedding in a blacked-out church with a special license and a man who was supposed to be dead.

Someday, decades from now, she’d tell stories of this night to their grandchildren, and they wouldn’t believe it.

Someday, decades from now, she’d look back and remember every impossible detail.

She’d remember the way the candlelight gilded her friends, her family, her priest, her groom.

She’d remember the lingering scent of incense from the altar.

She’d remember the way Hugo’s watch went tic.

..tac into the silent room, and how her heart pulsed in time, whispering the same claim in every language she knew.

Mien. Mein. Mine.

Nothing frantic. Nothing panicked. Nothing fearful. Just all things good and noble and bright. It didn’t matter that Ackermann was still trying to destroy them. It didn’t matter that soon Christian would leave. It didn’t matter if cupboards were bare.

What mattered was that as Father Serres led them through their vows, she felt the weaving of the miracle. The sacrament. The covenant. Two, becoming one. Three becoming one. One family. One unit. One force to weather the storm.

The air was cold again, and it grew colder by the minute.

Colder, somehow, the brighter the sky grew.

It seeped up through the step he sat on, through the door at his back, cutting straight through the wool of his uniform.

Christian felt it in every inch of flesh, down to his very bones by the time morning had banished the last of the stars.

But only to his bones. Only in his skin.

It couldn’t touch the warm peace he’d been adding fuel to each and every day since he’d made his choice.

The smoldering backlog he’d lit when he married Corinne.

The log after log they’d built together during that stolen, blissful Christmas in a borrowed flat the Moreaux had arranged for them.

Georges’s knock last night hadn’t taken it from him. If anything, his “Tomorrow—present yourself tomorrow” had only closed the furnace door, set the damper, and let the warmth flow out through his whole system.

He’d been sitting here since an hour before the end of curfew, so that no one would see him arrive.

He had no watch—his had stopped working after being bathed in his blood—but he knew when curfew lifted.

A few people had begun to stir, to bustle to whatever shift at whatever job was awaiting them, but none had so much as looked his way—just one more shadow blending in with the night.

His fingers were cold, even through his leather gloves. His toes ached. And he relished each discomfort, because he was alive to feel them.

Next week as 1941 dawned, he could be in a trench somewhere. Or in a prison camp. This would seem warm, then.

Worst-case scenario—worst for Corinne, for Felix, for Georges—he would be dead.

Never cold again. Safe in the embrace of the Father.

If that were to happen, then he prayed now that he would have the honor of praying still then.

Praying for them, every moment of eternity until they joined him.

Praying from the very throne room of God.

Christ had said the angels of little ones were always before the Father, interceding for them—he would find Felix’s. He would intercede too, if that were his fate.

Dawn went from slate and purple to rosy pink to royal gold, and finally he heard the footsteps he was waiting for.

Kraus, shoulders hunched against winter and life, striding to his post. Christian studied him in the morning light.

He’d lost weight, even though soldiers were given more than enough food to keep them healthy.

His face was chapped from endless days outside in the wind.

His eyes were listless. Lightless. Lifeless.

He didn’t even spot Christian, there on the doorstep, until he’d come through the gate and drawn the key from his pocket. And when he did, he jumped, dropped the key and his bag and nearly fell over the wrought iron fencing behind him, disbelieving curses streaking the air.

Christian stood. Held out his arms. “I’m not dead, though it was a near thing. A Good Samaritan found me. I’ve been healing, these weeks.”

It was all he would ever admit to anyone, a truth he’d recited over and over and over until it became the only one his lips would give.

Kraus stared. His chest heaved. One hand gripped the wrought iron.

Christian stepped forward, bent down, and retrieved the keys. He motioned toward the door. “Do you mind? I could use a break from the cold before we go.” Not actually waiting for agreement, he unlocked the library and took his first step inside in two months.