Page 7

Three

Corinne had always been an ace at note-taking.

It had served her well in school, at university, and in her postgraduate studies.

She could read a paragraph and distill it to its key points without even needing to pause to think about it.

If only life were a well-ordered paragraph—or even a disordered one—she could make sense of it.

Learning to apply her skills to observations of people, however. ..

She wiped another trickle of sweat from her brow and dragged her eyes away from the disturbing scene at the National Library.

Watching “the professor” direct Nazis hither and yon hadn’t been her goal for the day—she’d merely been walking past when she spotted the unfortunately familiar form, and her steps had slowed of their own accord.

Three weeks had passed since the army had rolled into the city.

When it became clear that they weren’t bombing buildings or shooting citizens, Paris had begun to wince its way to life again.

The Métro trains were running. Cafés had reopened.

Grocers had unbarred the doors to their shops.

More people hurried along the avenues, heads tucked down, than had been left in the city at the start of the occupation, which meant they were sneaking back in from wherever they’d hidden in the countryside.

Even so, it was an empty shell compared to what it had once been. No streets crammed with autos and pedestrians, only the occasional Nazi car, the occasional Nazi inform, and Parisians doing their best to ignore the existence of both, like they were nothing but stray cats.

She granted herself one more moment of watching swastika-banded soldiers carry boxes of books to waiting lorries and then forced her feet onward.

Too late. She felt eyes on her, and it itched like another trickle of sweat.

A glance showed her that it wasn’t the professor who had spotted her—it was that low-ranking henchman of his, the one called Kraus.

Any time their paths had crossed on Boulevard Arago, he’d given her a look so dark it seemed as though he’d have preferred to greet her with a blade or a bullet.

She turned her face forward again and told herself not to increase her pace. Running would get too much attention.

The cardinal rule of most Parisians had become “avoid notice whenever possible.” She’d already made a mess of that on day one when she’d had to repeat the key-turning-over bit twice in the course of an hour, but she’d promised herself—as she would her uncle—that she’d do better.

She made a mental note of how many soldiers she’d counted coming in and out of the library, just for practice, and set her sights on the bright red awning at the end of the street.

The café had been her choice, but she was regretting it now.

When she’d chosen the location, she hadn’t realized walking by the library would gut her so.

Oncle Georges already sat at one of the little tables, a cup of café au lait beside him, half empty, and a book open before him.

He closed the book and stood as she approached, of course, offering her a grin.

They exchanged the customary cheek kisses, and he pulled out the other chair for her.

She sat and prepared a smile for the waiter who appeared, placing an order to match her uncle’s.

“You look troubled,” Oncle Georges said in a tone that sounded like he was giving her a compliment. It matched the warm smile, the twinkle in his eye.

How did he do it? Look so blastedly easy, when he was anything but?

Another lesson she needed to learn if she wanted to succeed at this new career.

And she did—she did . She wanted to do something that would make a difference, help her students do the same.

She wanted it all to mean something—otherwise, Maman was trapped across the Channel for nothing.

Her palms were damp, and she wiped them on her linen skirt, keeping her own smile in place. “Did you see the library?”

He lifted his cup and took a sip. “Difficult to miss. How many soldiers did you count?”

A test, not an actual request for information. She didn’t answer while the waiter came with a cup and saucer, then poured coffee and milk into her cup simultaneously. First she thanked him, and then she took her own little sip, just as she always did. “Twelve?”

Her uncle chuckled and tapped a calloused finger to his cup. “Question or statement, mon chouchou ?”

Her breath blew out, vibrating her lips. “Would you like to know how many boxes of books I saw them move?”

Another chuckle, this one genuine. She knew him well enough to hear the slight difference in tone, but she doubted anyone else would. “You know your own priorities, I suppose. There were only ten soldiers, counting the officer and his aide.”

“Kraus.”

His fingers stilled. His eyes blinked—once, slowly. His gaze settled on her face instead of looking out at the street.

Corinne shifted on the metal of her chair.

She probably knew Georges better than anyone else in France did, but it never helped in these moments.

The ones where his gaze shifted from that of a doting uncle to that of a man who didn’t just have secrets, but who collected them like books on a shelf.

“He and the officer have made their headquarters at the Library of Burned Books. I’ve seen them about.

Heard them calling to each other.” Met them rather stupidly.

Had he been a less disciplined man, a hiss of breath might have eased out between his teeth. Georges, of course, only took another sip of coffee. And his eyes relaxed again. “What is the officer’s name?”

She shrugged and circled a finger around the rim of her cup. “The men simply call him ‘professor.’ I didn’t recognize his insignia from the ones you’d given me to study.”

“My fault—I apologize. The documents I had are out of date. The Party created the sonderführer rank three years ago for cases like this one—when they need a civilian expert to assist with specific parts of a military campaign.” Georges gave a shrug so very expressive, she marveled yet again at how French he was, despite having not a drop of Gallic blood in his veins.

“He no doubt is simply a librarian or expert in literature. They have art experts here too—I saw them at the Louvre, stealing away whatever hadn’t been hidden by the curators last year. ”

Her fingers tightened around the cup—which she didn’t realize until Oncle Georges sighed and tapped a finger to her knuckles. “Your temper continues to give you away, mon chouchou .”

She relaxed her hand. “Sorry. But is it not enough that they’ve overrun our city? Must they steal everything of value too?”

“They seem to think so.” He leaned back again, his face shifting into lines that mixed concern with confidence.

Lines he’d earned when younger than she was now, serving as an Allied soldier and scout during the World War.

She had no memory of Oncle Georges without those lines.

They said he saw the dangers, the evils.

Recognized them for what they were. And dealt with them.

“I don’t like that they’re quartering so close to you. ”

“Not quartering , per se. They must have rooms elsewhere—the professor fellow is just using the library as his office.”

The twist of Georges’s lips showed the same amused confusion she’d felt when the officer had told her his intentions. Georges had been in the library many times. He knew its...quirks, she’d call them, as surely as she did. “An odd choice.”

“I thought so too.”

“Well.” He managed a shrug this time with only his eyebrows. “Keep an eye on it—from a distance. The fewer interactions you can manage, the better.”

“I’ve been avoiding them.” She left off the mostly , but he must have heard it somehow anyway.

His brows lifted now, that same insistence for honesty that he’d been using to get her secrets from her since she was small enough to sit on his knee and nestle into his arms and confess that, yes, she’d stolen a bonbon from the jar after her mother told her she wasn’t to have any sweets because she’d lied about a fight in school.

She focused on the summer-weight wool of his jacket instead of his face.

“I bumped into them their first day there.”

“Bumped into them.” His words would have sounded flat to anyone else. They sounded like accusations to her. “On the street, I suppose?”

She blew out another breath. It was no use trying to lie to him. “I was in the library when they arrived. I said I dusted for the owners—that was it. The professor fellow took my key, saw me out, and told me not to come back.”

The fact that Georges actually squeezed his eyes shut in frustration told her more than shouting would have done that she’d made a misstep that had him doubting she could be trusted with anything.

That he was considering taking from her this one chance to do something that mattered in the war.

“Let’s ignore the fact that I know very well Kantorowicz reclaimed your key.

Let’s focus on the fact that they now know you’re familiar with the place—no, associated with the place. You’ve put suspicion on yourself.”

She already knew it, but hearing him say it made her shoulders pull up. “It is only a library.”

“Filled entirely with what they consider dangerous, deceptive, and treasonous works, and run by men who are quite literally on their enemies list.” He still spoke quietly, but intensity filled the words.

She watched him catch himself, draw in a careful breath, and return to that easy demeanor.

“Do you know the meaning of the word ‘cautious,’ Rinny?”

She forced a grin. “Of course not. That’s why I was always your favorite.”

He snorted a laugh. But then his face went sober. “I promised your mother no harm would come to you through this. Why are you trying to make a liar of me?”