Although Boar had been civil with Madeleine, even making cordial conversation while sharing cigarettes, the same could not be said for his attitude toward Ollie. In the evenings, hunkered under the floorboards in proximity to Ollie, Boar’s disposition turned sour. Perhaps Madeleine, sensing the lieutenant’s growing irritability, had intended to acquire the brandy to soften Boar’s temperament. Or to enable Ollie’s tolerance. But Ollie learned the real reason for Madeleine’s trip to the village when she excused herself from the table and returned with a weathered map.

“I’ve arranged for your passage,” Madeleine said, taking her seat.

Ollie looked at her.

“Bloody hell,” Boar said, dropping his fork. A bit of turnip fell to the floor, which Louis gobbled up.

Madeleine ignored the comment and slid the map to the center of the table. “I’ve spoken with—”

“You were to keep your mouth shut.” Boar gripped his cup.

Madeleine calmly refilled the lieutenant’s brandy. “Do you speak French?”

“That has nothing to do with it,” Boar said.

“It has everything to do with it.”

Boar rubbed his jowl. “You should have consulted me first. You’ll cock up our escape.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ollie said. “It’s done.”

The lieutenant turned his head toward Ollie’s voice, then took a gulp of brandy.

Madeleine lit a cigarette. She took a deep drag, then blew smoke through her nose. “You’ll be taken south.” She drew her finger over the map. “To Spain.”

“Who’s taking us?” Boar asked.

She paused and drew a breath. “A friend of my husband.”

“Guillaume,” Ollie said.

She nodded, seeming pleased to hear her husband’s name.

“French Resistance?” Boar asked.

“No,” she said.

“Splendid,” Boar scoffed. “How do we know he won’t go to the Nazis?”

She puffed her cigarette and handed it to Boar, as if it were a peace offering. “Trust me. He won’t tell a soul.”

Boar placed the cigarette to his lips. Smoke swirled past his bandaged eyes.

Ollie looked at the map. He focused on what lay between France and Spain. The Pyrenees. Even on paper, the jagged lines that depicted the mountain range appeared formidable, much steeper than the eroded Appalachian range that ran through Mount Katahdin in Maine. He wondered if he would physically be able to make a 500-mile trek through France, let alone avoid the enemy, and then climb a mountain on a bum leg.

“You leave in a week,” Madeleine said. “When the lieutenant’s bandages come off and your ankle has had time to heal.”

Ollie stretched his foot. Pain shot through his tendons. May need longer than that.

As Ollie rubbed his ankle, Boar questioned Madeleine. The lieutenant attempted to gain details about their guide and the escape route. But Madeleine held firm, refusing to break her confidentiality, like a priest who had heard confession.