She had always been a good student in school, yet under his tutelage, she’d learned things far beyond the topics offered by the nuns at the local school. Often he told her to curtail her cleaning and gardening duties in order to read more. They both loved reading of all sorts—novels and histories, classic tales of heroes and villains, poetry and current journals about the state of the world in the midst of the terrible things that were happening all around them. Although Bellerive had surrendered peacefully when the Italian army marched over the bridge and took up occupation in the mairie and the courthouse, these were worrisome times. The real news was found in the underground journals distributed mysteriously throughout the region, giving patriots the awful truth: the Nazis had overrun Paris. There were arrests, roundups, and deportations of Jews and foreigners, and according to Dr. Toselli, the only thing keeping the Nazis at bay in the Var was the presence of the Italians.

“It is a sad thing, choosing one conqueror over another,” he told her. “Let’s not read the news today. Everything is censored, anyway. I would prefer to check in with Mr. Holmes.”

Toselli had a special project with Lisette, sharing with her his most favorite treat—a series of novels about Sherlock Holmes, a brilliant English detective who solved mysterious crimes. The books were in English. When they first started reading A Study in Scarlet, she’d struggled mightily with the foreign words and tortured pronunciation, but Toselli was incredibly patient and encouraging. He delighted in her swift improvement. They were now reading the third volume in the series, a story called The Hound of the Baskervilles.

She read a scene in which Sherlock Holmes stood in the hallway of a mansion, studying the ancestors of the Baskervilles, noting the family resemblance and wondering about a newly arrived cousin.

“Does the family resemblance truly exist,” she asked, when she finished reading, “or do people see what they want to see?”

Monsieur smiled at her. “That is part of the puzzle, eh? It is no mystery where you came from. You are as fair and flaxen-haired as your dear mother. Who is probably getting your supper at home. You should go.”

She placed the book on the table next to his magnifying glass. He was still able to see print with a powerful lamp and glass, and he might want to read on later. Then she bade him good-bye, gathered up her things, and stepped out into the sun-flooded street.

Before walking to her parents’ tiny cottage at the south end of the town by the bridge, she had one more errand. It was Saturday, and she had to stop at the village church to make her weekly confession.

The church was dim and cool inside. The ancient stone floor and walls amplified the sound of her footfalls as she walked up a side aisle toward the wooden confessional booth with its carved gargoyles and griffin vultures. A few nuns and old people were present, some seated on prayer chairs, others kneeling in front of the main altar, heads bent in contemplation. She approached the confessional, leaning down to see if it was occupied.