She glanced up through the open window, following the lines of the Vendôme column up toward the unsettled sky. It was early evening but it seemed later, and the heavy clouds that had loomed earlier now sat squarely over the city, rumbling ominously and threatening rain.

A soldier hurried forward. He was painfully young, and his fair, flushed cheeks had probably never seen a razor. “Stop!” he said as the driver turned off the car. “You can’t be here.”

Sophie wasn’t sure if he was speaking to the driver or themselves, sitting silently in the back.

The driver merely glanced at the young soldier as if he were a fly buzzing at the periphery of the vehicle. He exited the vehicle and then opened Estelle’s door for her. Estelle gracefully slid from the vehicle. She was wearing the stunning yellow-crepe gown that had hung in her wardrobe. It clung to her in effortless style, and with her hair gathered in glossy waves and secured at her nape and her makeup applied with a skill that had startled Sophie, Estelle Allard had transformed herself from a heartsick woman to a femme fatale. Vera Atkins would have approved.

“Mademoiselle Allard,” the soldier said, taking a step back, confusion crossing his face as Estelle advanced toward him. “It is a pleasure to see you again, but you can’t be here. I must remind you that this entrance is reserved for officers only.”

Estelle snorted inelegantly and let the strap of her gown slip from her shoulder. “Hauptgefreiter Müller, a pleasure to see you too. Tell me, how is the lovely Madeleine?”

The young soldier blushed. “She is well, thank you.” He cleared his throat. “But you can’t be here, truly. This is the officers’ entrance.”

“I know this,” she said with a pretty laugh. “I also know that if you care to check in with Colonel Meyer, you will discover that he is expecting me. He did, after all, send a car for me. And transport.” She gestured at the lorry. “I have a gift for the Reichsmarschall.”

The young soldier blinked under the barrage of name dropping and effortless charm. From where Sophie sat, it was difficult to tell which had more impact.

“What sort of gift?” Müller asked.

“You are now the Reichsmarschall’s curator?” Estelle asked as the two men from the lorry started toward the entrance with the package.

“What? No.” His eyes darted toward the two men, who were getting closer to the entrance, clearly torn between stopping the errant entries and speaking with Estelle.

“Then be a dear and go tell the colonel that Mademoiselle Allard has arrived with the Reichsmarschall’s art.”

The driver had come around the other side of their car and opened the door for Sophie. She tried to exit with the same grace Estelle had. She wasn’t entirely sure she managed it.