“Is he safe?”

“Yes.” Estelle was trying not to stare at Vivienne. Nobody knew the airman’s first name save for Estelle.

And Sophie.

Suspicion colored her next question. “What are you really doing here?”

“Celine didn’t think you would trust her. Not with something this important.” Vivienne paused. “Not with the life of a child.”

Estelle froze.

“Was she right?”

Yes. Except Estelle didn’t reply because she’d come to the sudden realization that the ice princess might know her better than she seemed to know herself.

“Do you trust me to help you with this?”

“Yes.”

“I wish you had told me about the child before now,” Vivienne murmured.

“I couldn’t,” Estelle managed. “I was trying to be careful.”

“I understand.” Vivienne set down her cup and ran a spindly finger around the rim. “But I know now. And everything is in place.”

Estelle’s fingers tightened so hard around the handle of her mug that she was afraid it would crack. She loosened her grip. The possibility of Aviva escaping—of her having a real chance to get out from under the constant threat of discovery, deportation, and death—had seemed distant. Now it was a real entity, a double-edged sword, capable of salvation as easily as it was capable of tragedy.

“Um” was all that came out of Estelle’s mouth.

“Can you go through with this?” There was a sharpness to the question, as if she had been reading Estelle’s mind.

Could she? What if she was doing the wrong thing? What if— She stopped. She couldn’t go down this road. At some point in this godforsaken war, she had to trust someone. And at the moment, that someone was both Sophie and Vivienne.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“She’ll be in good hands.” Those words were softer. “I promise.”

“Yes,” Estelle whispered again, because she didn’t know what else to say.

“Cimetière de Montmartre. Jacques Offenbach.”

Estelle swallowed. “I understand.” Estelle had seen Offenbach’s grave before. Knew exactly where it was.

“Three.” Vivienne paused. “He won’t wait.”

“I understand,” Estelle repeated. Three o’clock. Estelle would say good-bye to Aviva today.

“Make sure she’s ready to leave you.”

The words were soft but Estelle recoiled anyway.

Vivienne finished her drink and paid. She stood, picked up her scarf, and wrapped it tightly over her head.

And then, without another word, she left.

The book still lay on the table. Estelle shifted slightly and looked around the café but no one paid her any attention, preoccupied with their own thoughts, silent sufferings, or conversations. Outside the café on the street, pedestrians hastened past the cracked panes, their heads down.