“I’m not sure, exactly.”

Vivienne’s brows shot up her forehead. “You’re not sure? What do you mean you’re not—what are you doing with all that?”

Henri had returned just then with the lantern, a knife, and a long coil of rope that he had slung across his body. He exchanged a glance with Sophie. “We’re going to go look for a spy.”

Chapter ​15

Chapter
​15

Estelle

Paris, France
20 August 1943

Estelle stood beneath the trees, just to the west of the wide stone staircase, looking for a spy.

Behind her, Sacré-Coeur rose up against a cloudless curtain of blue, impervious to the mortals suffering and surviving beneath it. The pristine, bulging white spires that reached to the heavens were bejewelled in dazzling sunshine, a peculiar juxtaposition against the worn, gaunt, and drab mass of humanity over which they presided. Atop the corner closest to Estelle, over the triple-arched entry, Joan of Arc sat frozen in bronze, clutching the reins of her horse in one hand and wielding her sword impotently in the other. Idly, Estelle wondered what Joan would think of what had become of her country. Her life sacrificed to chase the English out of France only to have them replaced by the Germans five hundred years later.

The basilica was crowded today, devout Parisians making the laborious trek up the long stretches of stairs to the top of their city to pray. Not that praying had seemed to have done the city or its residents much good these past years. The constant presence of the Geheime Staatspolizei that drifted around the cathedral grounds like an omnipresent miasma was testament to that.

Though today, there seemed to be more of them than usual, and Estelle didn’t like it at all. A week ago, Vivienne had told her to expect two Allied agents to make contact with her following the last full moon. That full moon had come and gone, and the agents had failed to materialize. It was likely that something had happened and their arrival had been aborted or compromised. London would try again on the next cycle, no doubt, and Estelle would wait here again, at the top of Montmartre, bright red flowers still tucked into the brim of her hat.

She’d stopped meeting couriers and agents anywhere near the train stations long ago. Train schedules had become increasingly erratic and unpredictable, and the stations themselves had become obvious targets of the Gestapo. She couldn’t risk being noticed and remembered. It was much easier, if it came to it, to justify regular sojourns to a basilica than to a train station.

Two Gestapo officers in their grey coats walked by, seemingly looking for something or someone. Estelle adjusted her hat, grateful for the wide brim. Time for her to go—

“Excuse me. Can you tell me what time mass is held in the afternoons?”