Meeting the woman would discourage even the bravest from ignoring the warning. Flat where she should have been round, round where she should have been flat, possessing the taste of a Parisian streetwalker and the disposition of a killer shark, the woman expected fashion miracles to atone for nature’s cruel injustices to her figure. It was Bridgette to whom she looked to wave her magic wand or, in this case, to apply her drawing pencils.

Having heard the horror stories about Frau Richter, Bridgette had expected the woman to greet her in the haughty manner of other customers who would look her up and down, then say contemptuously to Madame Boucher, “I want an accomplished dress designer to attend me, not a child apprentice.” But surprisingly, Frau Richter had taken one look at her and said simply, “Stick me with a pin, midget, and I will slap you.” So, no problem with acceptance there.

That was the word—acceptance—that Bridgette had been looking for to explain her connection to the team of Dragonfly and Major Renault. Right from the start, they’d all accepted her as she was. She had not had to prove her right to the spot she’d earned. She had not been judged instantly and treated as younger than her age or as delicate as her size suggested. None had addressed her irritatingly, indulgently with asinine tags like little bit, short stuff, or Pee Wee. They had not kindly rushed to her aid during training to offer an unsolicited hand where taller, stronger, smarter people prevailed. They had cut her no slack, given no quarter, nor set the tee box forward. They had trusted her to be their equal in strength and intelligence and capability. How could she not feel connected to people like that? How could she not feel as if…well, it was like being among family?

But the realist in her could not help but anticipate the obstacles that got in the way of the staunchest friendships enduring. As she’d tried to point out to Gladys, time corroded bonds, memories faded, loyalties fossilized. They were the facts of life. Bridgette supposed the weight of that eventuality was responsible for the particular depression she was feeling this morning, so much so that she’d even looked forward to Achim Fleischer’s smiling face and friendly greeting.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

You have a letter, Herr Bauer,” Louis Mueller said when Chris arrived at the academy that Monday morning and handed over a note-sized envelope of heavy vellum. The man’s smirk and the unsealed flap told Chris that he had already read its contents.

“The letter appears to have been opened,” Chris said.

“It came that way. Perhaps the Abwehr courier who delivered it is responsible.”