Still, a small inner voice warned her to beware. A cobra lulled by the music did not mean that it was asleep.

Bridgette had no such fears. Free from Achim’s watchful eye, convinced that he had not reported her radio, she enjoyed the luxury of concentrating on the mural as a work of art apart from its purpose as a code pad. Between the lulls in snowfalls, it grew in size and depth and beauty and led to pleasant acquaintanceships among the locals and even with the soldiers of the German street patrols. She began to feel at home in the convent. She enjoyed mealtimes and chess matches with the nuns in the evening. Several of the Sisters of Charity, without a hint that they knew what she was up to, volunteered to stand as lookouts to warn her of the approach of German direction finders during the times she was at her wireless.

Bridgette’s one minor concern was the jealousy of several of Madame Boucher’s designers, who were known collaborators. The French fashion world and its schools of design comprised a small, closed society. From her first day at the fashion house, the designers had covertly expressed their perplexity at how madame had happened to hire an apprentice unknown to their sphere and afforded her special treatment and leeway to come and go as she pleased.

“Always something to keep you on your toes,” Bridgette sighed to the mother superior in confiding her impressions of her fellow coworkers.

“I will pray for your balance, ma chère amie, but you must take care,” Sister Mary Frances warned.

With Dirk gone, Bucky, too, could now enjoy a relatively safe home and work environment. His greatest and constant worry concerned the safety of his father. The Black Ghost made weekly headlines in underground newspapers. One afternoon, as Christmas approached, Bucky returned to the boardinghouse after work to find a fresh black mark on the underside of the bottom porch step. His throat clogged with fear. Early the next morning, he arrived in the park when not a single footprint marred the pristine, snow-covered grounds. Gone were the birds and the man with his paper sack. He was alone. Bucky stuck his hand into the eye of the tree and withdrew a note. My beloved, a Christmas package awaits you at CB.

Bucky sprinted across the street to Claire Bellerose’s house and rang the bell. It was instantly answered by his aunt’s old butler and caretaker, who, without a word, thrust a wrapped package into Bucky’s hand and closed the door. Taking the package to the bench in the park, Bucky unwrapped it. Tears immediately flooded his eyes. He held in his hands the yellow-fringed epaulettes worn by his father as a cadet officer and student at Saint-Cyr, France’s foremost military academy. “Happy Christmas, son,” read the accompanying note.