“I don’t keep ammunition in there.”

“So I discovered. And the rifle needs cleaning.”

“That trunk was locked. For a reason.”

Sophie shrugged. “It was. And then it wasn’t. Something else they teach us at spy school.”

“Merde.” La Chanteuse pressed her fingers to the temples of her forehead. In the background, Edith Piaf continued to sing softly on the gramophone.

“I know you didn’t ask for any of this,” Sophie said.

The woman sighed. “And neither did you.”

“And yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” she agreed. She dropped her hands and looked up at Sophie. “Estelle,” she said after a long pause.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name. It’s Estelle.”

“Estelle,” Sophie repeated. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For what you’ve done. The men you’ve helped get home. You’re very brave.”

“Save your thanks. I’m not brave.”

“Yes, you are—”

“No, I’m not,” Estelle snapped. The child on the sofa stirred, and she lowered her voice. “I haven’t been part of that network in over a year. Because I’m not brave. I’m terrified. Terrified that Aviva will be discovered. Terrified that, even if she isn’t, she won’t last this war. Terrified that the promise I made to keep her safe will mean nothing because every day I watch her fade a little more.” She leaned back against the wall, gazing at the slumbering child. “I’m afraid to take her outside. I’m afraid to leave her in the apartment without being hidden. There are ears and eyes everywhere these days. Half my neighbours hate me because they see the black cars that have brought me home from time to time and think I’m one of them. The other half, those who have sold their souls to the Vichy cowards and Nazi pigs, are ravenous for the chance to denounce a neighbour. To prove that I am not who I pretend to be. I’m so afraid I’m going to fail her. I’m so afraid I’m going to make a mistake that will cost her her life.” The words had poured out in a torrent, like the breaking of a dam, and Estelle’s jaded defiance that she had worn like armour was replaced with desolate sorrow. “My world has shrunk to this apartment and the space between here and the hotels, but hers has shrunk to that room. And now even that isn’t safe anymore.”

Sophie didn’t know what to say.

“She wants to be a doctor when she grows up,” Estelle said. “Or maybe a ballerina. I told her she could be both.” She made a harsh sound. “Right now, I’m not sure she’ll even have the chance to grow up.”

“You’re doing your best,” Sophie said gently.

“My best,” Estelle sneered. “My best has yet to be enough. My best has failed at every turn.”

“That’s not—”