The two men crowded out of the bedroom, leaving Estelle behind. She forced her feet to move and followed them.

Sophie was crouched near the painting, the dusty little toolbox that had sat in the corner of the closet in one hand. She set the toolbox down against the wall beside the painting and straightened as the men approached, a blinding smile on her face. “Oh, it’s you again,” she exclaimed happily. “What a coincidence.”

The sergeant stopped, Hesse nearly crashing into him. Estelle edged toward the door.

“Tell me why you are here, Madame Beaufort,” Schwarz said coldly. “What have you been sent to do?”

“At the moment, we are trying to hang a painting,” she replied without missing a beat. “I don’t suppose you’ve run into Hauptgefreiter Müller? He’s gone to fetch a ladder. Perhaps you would be so kind as to assist when he returns.”

“How is your friend?” Schwarz asked, ignoring her query and advancing toward the agent.

“My friend?”

“The half-wit I met at the basilica.”

Sophie’s smile slipped. “He is not a half-wit—”

“No, I didn’t think he was. Finally, we get to a truth from you. Where is he now, Madame Beaufort? And what is your mission here?”

“—and he is much better, thank you,” Sophie continued on, ignoring his interruption. “I took him to the Tuileries Gardens. He enjoyed the peace.” She nudged the toolbox by her foot a little farther behind the painting before stepping away and wandering unhurriedly toward the door. Toward Estelle.

Estelle tried to catch her eye, to understand what was happening. To understand what the agent thought she was doing. But Sophie ignored her.

“Stop,” Schwarz commanded.

Sophie ignored him, too, and continued walking.

“You were told to stop,” Hesse barked.

“I don’t know who you are working for but you’ll not get far, Madame Beaufort,” the sergeant shouted. “I have more men on their way up here now.”

“I’ll stop her,” the aide said and pushed by the sergeant, launching himself at Sophie.

The agent unaccountably paused and allowed him to close his hands around her neck. He snarled in triumph, an expression of savage glee suffusing his narrow features.

Estelle never saw where the knife that punctured his neck came from, though the long, flowing sleeves of Madame Beaufort’s dress had likely not been an accident. The aide dropped bonelessly to the rug, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, his eyes rolling back in his head.

In another movement so swift that Estelle barely had time to register it, Sophie turned on her, wrapping an arm around her neck and yanking her hard backward. With Sophie’s height and startling strength, Estelle found herself held immobile, her fingers clawing at Sophie’s forearm. A prick of warm steel against her neck stilled those struggles.