At least the American was gone. He’d left the same day as Sophie, trailing a discreet distance behind Estelle. He’d been dressed in a new set of clothes, his throat bandaged so that injury could be provided as a reason he couldn’t speak, and a set of forged doctor’s papers in his pocket declaring this so. Estelle had made the short journey with him to Troyes, every second on that train an exercise in dread, but the Germans who had asked to see their papers had looked harder at the copy of Signal they were both pretending to read than they did at their documents. Estelle had left the young gunner in a house she’d been to only once before, and if the elderly woman who had opened the door had been surprised to see Estelle and not Jerome, she didn’t indicate it.

Estelle wrapped icy hands around what little warmth remained in her mug and finished her drink, examining her surroundings for anything out of place. She saw nothing. It didn’t make her feel any better. She surreptitiously checked her watch. She couldn’t linger much longer. She would have to try again tomorrow, but in the meantime, she needed to figure out an alternative plan to get Aviva out of that apartment and out of the city.

Estelle set her empty mug down on the surface of the table and dug into her pockets for payment.

Something thumped down on the table beside her, and Estelle started. She looked up to discover that someone had put a book down and taken a seat beside her. She glanced at the tome and, with a jolt, realized that the title was in German. A Fatalist at War, she translated silently. How poignant.

The newcomer pulled the scarf from her head, setting it neatly on top of the book. Two schoolgirl plaits escaped over her shoulders. Estelle remained motionless as Vivienne ordered a cup of the same awful brew.

Beneath the table, Estelle clasped her hands together so hard that her knuckles went white. She hadn’t yet told Vivienne about Jerome. Hadn’t been able to find her, though Estelle had tried. But now that she was inexplicably here, sitting beside Estelle, the words wouldn’t come.

Vivienne’s drink arrived, and she blew gently on the steaming surface.

Estelle took a deep breath and forced herself to speak. “There is something you need to know—”

“I do.” Vivienne cut her off.

“What?”

“I know what happened at Sacré-Coeur.”

“Oh.” There must have been others watching that day. Others who had seen what had happened. Hope flared. Maybe Vivienne had been missing these last days because they had found—

“We haven’t found him. Not yet.” The petite woman snuffed out her hope.

“Oh.” Estelle managed again, looking down at her hands.

“What about young Frederick?”

“What?” The use of the American’s name nearly jolted Estelle from her seat.