Jerome was wearing his usual threadbare suit, a paper tucked underneath one arm, and he looked not unlike the other men milling at the entrance to the basilica. Except for the fact that he wasn’t milling. He was walking with purpose in her direction, looking neither left nor right, the expression on his face ominously tight. After the night they’d spent together, he’d vanished completely again, as Estelle had known he would. What she hadn’t expected was to see him here, now, at the basilica in broad daylight unless he was—

Estelle’s eyes flew to the space behind Jerome, and sure enough, a second man walked, following in his footsteps. He was young with sandy brown hair, a square jaw, broad shoulders, and deep-set eyes shadowed with fear. One hand was in his pocket, toying with whatever coins or possessions were in it, a cigarette held between the first two fingers of his other hand. He kept glancing over his shoulder, his entire bearing that of a flighty horse about to bolt. He took a desperate drag on his cigarette.

“Merde,” Estelle whispered. The airman hadn’t been adequately briefed on habits and mannerisms or had forgotten everything.

“He smokes like an American,” Celine commented casually. She had moved to stand beside Estelle and had followed her gaze. “A nervous one.”

And it was going to get him noticed, arrested, or killed. Worse, it might very well get Jerome noticed, arrested, or killed. Though death would come after both men were carted off to avenue Foch and put into sealed rooms where no one, save the Gestapo, would hear their screams. Where no one, save the Gestapo, would hear whatever secrets were torn from their lips. Like the identities of those who helped the line. Now and in the past.

The two Gestapo men who had passed Estelle earlier were now farther down the promenade, heading past the basilica, their backs still to her. But another pair of uniformed men had emerged from the shadows of the arches, moving slowly, craning their necks as they wove their way through a group of women. Their attention fell on Jerome, and one of them shouted and pointed.

Jerome was almost even with Estelle now. She could see the fear that dotted his forehead with perspiration. He looked up, shock blooming across his face as he recognized her. In a smooth motion, he dropped his paper and bent to pick it up.

“They were waiting,” he said before tucking the paper back under his arm. “They’re looking for me. Get him to Troyes. You know the house. Please.” His desperation was clear. He continued down the wide stone steps without a moment of hesitation.

“Your friend?” Celine asked, neither woman watching him go.