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She was her mother’s daughter. She was fighting against the occupiers.

She was helping to fund safe passage for innocent refugees.

Never had she felt prouder or more in tune with her purpose.

Her father would hate what she was doing, but it no longer mattered.

He was dead to her, and though his abandonment still cut her deeply, it had also taught her that in the end, she could rely only on herself.

But despite her pride, she still felt a hollowness she feared would never be filled.

She could save a million people, but it wouldn’t bring her mother or sister back.

It wouldn’t make her father love her. It wouldn’t save Tristan, nor the Rosmans, nor the chemist on her block who’d been deported, nor the schoolteacher who had worked with Papa and had been executed for distributing an underground newspaper. It would never be enough.

And then there was the fact that she was keeping secrets from Uncle Frédéric and Aunt Marie.

She was grateful for the affection they’d given her, the safety, the roof over her head.

She respected them greatly and knew that, at best, they would disapprove of her activities.

At worst, they might decide to throw her out for engaging in behavior that could endanger them all.

“I would like to bring you to England with me,” he told her over dinner that night with Uncle Frédéric and Aunt Marie, who had given her a home for the last three years but had never really been her family.

Le Paon’s group had long since disbanded, and there was no one to steal for anymore, no call to justice to answer.

The lack of purpose left her feeling unmoored.

“I’m seventeen now.” She didn’t want to be a burden on Uncle Leo. “You don’t need to feel responsible for me. I’m old enough to stay here in Paris on my own.”

“I’m certain you are, Colette. But in 1940, when it looked certain that France would fall to the Germans, my sister sent me a letter.

She asked me to care for her daughters if ever they found themselves alone.

I wrote back to swear that I would do so, and I am determined to keep my word.

It would be my great honor to show you where your mother came from, and to make sure you grow up in the way your mother would have wanted. ”

Colette held his gaze. “As a jewel thief, you mean.”

Uncle Leo glanced at Frédéric and Marie and then scratched the back of his head uneasily. “Colette, my dear, I’m not sure what—”

“It’s all right, Uncle Leo,” she said. “They knew who my mother was and what she stood for.”

“And we loved her for it,” Uncle Frédéric confirmed. “But it is also what got her killed. And to put Colette in any sort of danger—”

“Is something I would never do,” Uncle Leo confirmed. “I give you my word. But the work I do, the work Annabel did, is Colette’s birthright, you see. I will teach her to follow in her mother’s footsteps, to carry on our traditions.”

“Uncle Leo?” Colette said after a pause. “I already know how to steal.”

“Ah, so your mother began to teach you before the war,” Uncle Leo said.

“Yes, but also—” She darted a glance at Uncle Frédéric and Aunt Marie. “But also, I have spent the war stealing to fund the underground.”

“Did you, now?” Uncle Leo said softly, nodding his approval. “Good girl, then.”

Uncle Frédéric was staring at her, stunned. “All those afternoons you went out for a stroll…”

“I’m sorry,” Colette said, bowing her head. “I was very careful. I did my best to make sure I was never putting you in danger. But I couldn’t turn my back on who my mother raised me to be.”

“I see.” Uncle Frédéric sighed and looked at Uncle Leo, an unspoken conversation passing between them.

Finally, Frédéric turned to Colette. “My dear, if you must go, I want you to remember two very important things. The first is that Marie and I love you very much. I know you never felt like you were ours; you had a mother, and your father still exists in the world. But please know that for Marie and me, who were never able to have children of our own, having you as a part of our lives these last three years has meant more than you’ll ever know. ”

Colette wiped a tear away. “I always feared I was a burden. And now that you know about the stealing…”

“Colette, you are a joy, and we will be proud of you for the rest of our lives, wherever you go, whatever you do. Which brings me to the second thing I must say. It is a beautiful thing to learn about one’s past. It will make you feel closer to your mother and to those who came before her.

I know that firsthand; I am a jewel broker because my father was one before me, and his father was one before him.

It is my family tradition, just as your family has its tradition. ”

He glanced once more at Uncle Leo before going on. “But please always remember, my dear, that there is a difference between a life that honors the past and a life dictated by it. When you let your history shape your future, you relinquish the ability to choose a better way forward.”

“The girl is old enough to make her own choices,” Uncle Leo said. “I will not force her into anything.”

“I believe you,” Uncle Frédéric said, but he wasn’t looking at Uncle Leo.

He was looking at Colette. “But it is also important that she knows she needn’t force herself to be someone simply to honor her mother.

I think that most of all, your mother would have wanted you to be happy. Don’t you agree, Leo?”

Leo shrugged. “I do. But oftentimes, happiness springs from fulfilling one’s destiny.”

Before she left Paris with her uncle, Colette returned once more to the rue Pasteur, in hopes of seeing her father one last time.

Had he returned now that the war was over?

Part of her hoped he had—and that when he saw her, his eyes would fill with tears and he would realize the error of his ways and take her back.

But when she knocked on the door to the apartment that had once been hers, there was no answer. Reluctantly, she knocked on the door to the old concierge’s apartment.

The war had not been kind to Madame Nadaud, who had sprouted a forest of hair from her nose since Colette had last seen her, and whose wrinkles and waistline had both multiplied.

Apparently while the rest of Paris starved, she had been packing on weight like a squirrel preparing for winter.

Annoyance flickered in Colette, but she swallowed it down.

“Who are you?” Madame Nadaud demanded with narrowed eyes, and the words cut into Colette. Had she really been that easily and fully erased from her former life?

“It’s me, Madame Nadaud. Colette Marceau.”

Madame Nadaud snorted. “The Marceau girl? I’ve spent years telling people you were dead. I almost believed it myself.”

“I’m very much alive, madame.” Colette closed her eyes briefly to steady herself. “I’m about to leave Paris, and I thought… Well, I hoped to see my father.”

“Yes, well, you and me both. He owes me a lot of money.”

“He hasn’t been back, then? Do you know if he’s still alive?”

“He’d better be. He keeps sending letters saying that he’ll return by the end of the year and will give me the money then. You can remind him, if you find him first, that I’ll tell the authorities his apartment is abandoned if he’s not here by Christmas.”

With one last snort, she slammed the door in Colette’s face.

Colette stood there on the threshold for a full moment before turning and leaving the building.

Her father was apparently still alive and hadn’t bothered to return for her, though it was now safe to do so.

It meant that he still hadn’t forgiven her and had no interest in reclaiming her as his daughter.

As the building’s big door shut behind her, leaving her outside on the street, Colette felt as if the past itself had closed with a thud.

Her father was gone forever. She was an orphan.

She stood on the sidewalk for a long time, rooted in place, before letting her feet carry her across to number 17, the building with the dark green door and the courtyard, a place she hadn’t returned to in three years, for she knew how much it would hurt her.

She let herself in—the front door still didn’t lock—and moved quickly to the wall. She counted eleven up, five across, and jiggled the loose brick until it came out, revealing an empty space behind. Her heart sank.

The poem she had left for Tristan in the summer of 1942 was gone, which could only mean that someone else had discovered their hiding place.

There was no note left in its place, and she felt sure that if, somehow, Tristan had survived, he would not have kept her poem without leaving one of his own.

He had taken his beautiful words with him to the grave.

The full impact of all she had lost hit her at once, and she fell to her knees, sobbing.

Tristan was gone. Her mother and sister were long dead.

Her father had abandoned her. She had nothing, no one.

When she finally climbed to her feet a few minutes later, wiped her tears, and slid the brick back into place, she knew in her heart that Paris was no longer her home, and it never would be again.