“Where do you want it put?” the shorter lorry driver asked.

“We’ll take it directly to the Imperial Suite. It’s to be hung before the Reichsmarschall returns.”

“W-we can’t allow that,” the young soldier stuttered.

“You most certainly can. Do you know how many pieces I have brought to the Reichsmarschall?” Estelle demanded.

“But—”

“Look,” Estelle said, gentling her voice, “I understand that you are only doing your job here. But this is a very valuable painting, and the longer it sits unprotected the greater risk of damage. The safest place for it is in his rooms.”

“Then we will have it taken there.”

“Not without us, you will not,” Estelle said primly. “I will not rest until I see it right to the end of its journey.”

“Us?”

Estelle gestured at Sophie. “This is Madame Beaufort, recently of Marseille. At my request, she has come to Paris to deliver this painting. I promised the Reichsmarschall a Le Brun and he shall have it. I always keep my promises.”

Sophie kept her gaze steady as she met the abrupt scrutiny of the soldiers.

“This is true?” the second one asked.

“It is,” Sophie answered easily in German. “It is an honour to offer such a piece to the glory of the Reich.” The soldiers straightened. The older lorry driver closest to Estelle gave her a speculative look.

“You’re German.” The soldier’s tone had warmed considerably.

“Half,” Sophie said, telling them the same thing she had told the Gestapo outside Sacré-Coeur. “My mother was from Berlin.”

“Mine too,” said Müller eagerly.

“That almost makes us neighbours, then,” Sophie said, smiling at him, trying her best to focus on the fact that the boy in front of her was just that. A boy. It was easier to smile that way.

He blushed to the roots of his fair hair and smiled back.

Sophie looked away.

“It was the colonel who suggested that I find a suitable place in the Reichsmarschall’s suite to best display the work,” Estelle said, sounding bored.

And with that lie, the clock had started ticking.

“In the interest of the efficiency that he so values,” Estelle continued, “as well as my own peace of mind, this work could be hung long before he finishes his evening. He can inspect it then, should he so desire. Or, alternatively, if you feel you must interrupt his evening to confirm his instructions to myself and Madame Beaufort, then please, go ahead. We’ll wait—”

“Wait?” Sophie cut Estelle off, her words brittle and just loud enough for the soldiers to hear. “What is going on here, Mademoiselle Allard? You indicated that this painting was very valuable to the Reichsmarschall but it seems that perhaps you have oversold its importance? Reichsführer Himmler has also expressed interest in this work, and I’m wondering if perhaps I should offer it to him instead—”

“No.” It was the young officer who interrupted her.