Page 12 of The Secret Librarian

They both laughed, heads tipped together.

And when Camille kissed him, she touched her lips slowly to his, taking her time, not wanting to ever leave their bed.

She’d loved Hugo from their very first date, talking so late into the night that it had become morning, their fingers intertwined as he’d walked her home at daybreak, promising to see one another the very next day.

Already imagining a life together after hours of being in his company.

‘I wish we could stay hidden here until it’s all over,’ she whispered against his skin. ‘Our little love nest.’

‘So do I,’ he murmured back, his hand around the back of her head, gently drawing her closer. ‘But they need us. France needs us.’

She nodded. Despite her desire to stay tucked up in bed with her husband, he was right, and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for her country.

She wanted her freedom back like everyone else, and that meant staying to fight, no matter what.

Because she wanted freedom for everyone, not just for them personally.

Camille sighed and kissed him once more, knowing that they didn’t have long before they had to leave, and wanting to make the most of every moment, wishing they could have longer, just the two of them.

‘For France,’ she said with a sigh. ‘And then for us.’

Hugo grinned and pulled her down on top of him, and Camille didn’t resist, loving the feel of her husband’s body against hers, the weight of him, the strength of him.

She’d been drawn to him from the moment they’d met, a friend her brother had brought home for dinner; their eyes had immediately locked across the table as if they were the only two people in the room.

‘I love you,’ he said, his mouth against her neck.

‘I love you, too.’

‘Just keep remembering our dream. The house with the big garden, the restaurant we’re going to open, surrounded by all our children.’

Camille straightened, pushing off from the wall and hurrying down the street as memories threatened to consume her; memories that usually only plagued her during the night when she tried to sleep, but were now chasing her while she was awake.

Sleep was no longer something she could count on, the terror coming for her night after night, no matter how hard she tried to forget.

Right now, though, she had to forget, because if she didn’t, her memories would make it impossible to fulfil her mission.

They’d called her the Little Rabbit for a reason in France, because she was so good at sneaking around undetected, and she intended on living up to her codename. It was all she had now that Hugo was gone, and it had to mean something .

She kept her head bent, obscuring her face with her hand as she dashed down one cobbled street after another, not slowing until she was at her apartment.

It was time to wash and get ready for work, because the bookshop wouldn’t open itself, and rather than being a chore, it was the one thing in her life these days that made her smile.

And smiling was no longer something she ever took for granted.

Her bookshop was also a lifeline for those Jewish refugees who needed her, and nothing, not memories nor nightmares, could stop her from doing everything she could to help them.

The rest of Camille’s morning was uneventful, serving a handful of people every hour who were trying to find books to keep their minds off things, and talking with her regulars, until the bell jingled and a young woman in her early twenties stepped into the store.

Camille glanced up from the letter she was writing, following the woman with her eyes and noting how nervous she seemed, which was unusual.

Most people relaxed the moment they stepped inside, as if the very sense of being surrounded by books was enough to calm them, but it appeared that the opposite had happened in this case.

Camille immediately wanted to find out more, and knew she’d never seen her before.

The woman was too pretty to be forgotten, and looked different from her usual clientele.

She also seemed to be of a similar age to Camille, maybe a year or two younger.

Camille assessed her for a little longer, before finally calling out.

‘Good morning,’ she said in Portuguese, even though she was certain the woman wouldn’t know the language.

Her dress was fashionable, and she was wearing heels, her dark-blonde hair half up with soft curls falling from the pins.

She looked ... Camille narrowed her gaze.

She looked distinctly out of place, and it immediately made Camille suspicious.

If she wasn’t local, and she wasn’t a refugee, then who was she?

The woman nodded, her eyes meeting Camille’s.

‘You’re French?’ Camille asked, in her native tongue, just to see whether the woman could understand her or not.

‘American,’ the woman replied, flashing Camille a small smile. ‘But my grandmother was French and my grandfather Portuguese, so I speak a little of both languages.’

‘And what brings an American girl all the way to Lisbon?’ Camille asked, frowning.

She’d seen all sorts come looking in her shop, usually British, German or even Japanese men, as well as an increasing number of Americans lately, and they were all looking for foreign newspapers or magazines, all eager to obtain the same material it seemed.

The last American had offered to trade her chewing gum and candy if Camille made sure to keep certain papers behind the counter for him alone, on top of whatever price she charged.

It didn’t take much guesswork to know they were spies, and with Portugal being one of the few places they could move around without sanctions, in a country almost entirely unaffected by the war, it was like a melting pot of nationalities.

The fact they seemed to have an unlimited amount of money to spend was another giveaway.

‘Actually, would you believe that I’m a librarian?

’ the American said. ‘I’ve been sent here to find and preserve history for our Library of Congress.

They’re determined to document the war as carefully as possible, for historical purposes, so I’m going to be very busy .

..’ The woman laughed. ‘Sorry, I talk too much when I’m nervous! ’

Camille didn’t buy the story for a second.

The woman’s eyes were wide and she looked more nervous than a girl on her first date, which told Camille that there was more to the story than she was letting on.

Camille certainly wasn’t convinced the woman was a librarian, and the last thing she needed was trouble around her shop, or another reason for the police to come looking.

‘Well, that’s all rather interesting,’ Camille replied. ‘I dare say you’re the first American librarian I’ve met before, although perhaps there are more here and they simply haven’t introduced themselves?’

The woman smiled. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘All the others would have been men though, so they might not stick out like a sore thumb in the same way I do.’

‘Ahh, I see,’ Camille said, considering the woman before her and trying to ascertain whether she was genuinely nervous or playing a very convincing part. Perhaps the talking-too-much nerves were part of her cover story. ‘And this endeavour, it is helpful to your country?’

The American frowned. ‘Yes, it’s very helpful. They’ve sent me a long way to complete the task.’

Camille forced a smile, considering that she’d been too direct with her question. It wasn’t her intention to be rude to customers, especially not American ones with deep pockets when she very much needed the money. ‘And how are you finding Lisbon so far?’

‘It’s beautiful here. Nothing at all what I expected.

We keep hearing stories of fallen cities and ruined buildings back home in America, but to think war hasn’t touched Portugal is almost impossible to believe until you see it with your own eyes.

It’s certainly something else.’ She paused for breath.

‘I’ve heard that Jews and Nazis might even pass on a street corner here. Is it true?’

‘Yes, it’s true,’ Camille said. ‘But don’t for a moment think that those Jews aren’t terrified, just because they’re in Lisbon, because they are.

They’ve seen things, experienced things, that you couldn’t even imagine if you tried.

So the fact that they might be standing on a street corner side by side does not for a second mean they’re not still scared, that war hasn’t touched here, because it has. ’

The woman’s eyes widened and her cheeks turned a deep shade of pink. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. That was incredibly naive of me.’

But Camille found she couldn’t stop now that she’d started speaking, anger bubbling up inside of her.

‘Those French Jews who’ve made it here? They are only a handful, a lucky few who managed to flee and find safety here.

If you’d seen Nazi soldiers marching the streets in Paris as if they owned the place, hungry children starving and begging for food, the mothers lined on street corners .

..’ Camille blinked away a tear, knowing she should stop but not able to; she was so angry.

It was all too much – this naive American, the night she’d spent with Kiefer, the memories she was trying so hard to bury.

‘War has touched here,’ she said, softly this time, restraining herself.

‘Just because the Jews don’t have yellow stars pinned to their jackets and the buildings are still standing, doesn’t mean it hasn’t touched the people here. ’

The American’s eyes were filled with tears now, and Camille regretted how harsh she’d been with her words. But after everything she’d been witness to, she couldn’t stand that anyone could be so naive.

‘Please accept my apology,’ she said, taking a deep breath and holding out her hand. ‘The war has taken a lot from me, but I should have held my tongue. I’m Camille.’