“No,” Estelle gasped, none of the terror in her voice feigned. Because she understood now exactly what Sophie was doing. “Don’t do this.”

“I must,” Sophie said. She started pulling Estelle back toward the door of the suite.

Schwarz nudged the leg of the lifeless aide with his boot. “Fool,” he breathed. “But useful in the end, I suppose. For he has shown me exactly what you are, Madame.”

Estelle’s gaze darted frantically around the room, past the Gestapo officer who was now circling them with a feral intensity. “No,” she wheezed. “No, no, no.”

“You will not come any closer,” the agent said to Schwarz. “If you do, I’ll kill this one too.”

“Kill her, then,” he said. “She is of no consequence to me.”

“But she is of consequence to the Reichsmarschall. And you and I both know it, no matter how stupid she might be.”

The sergeant hesitated.

“For what it’s worth, the dead man was right,” Sophie told him with scorn. “She really does have the intelligence of a post.”

From outside the suite, the sound of boots on stairs rumbled.

Sophie jerked Estelle closer to her, turning away from Schwarz as if trying to listen to the sound coming from the suite’s entrance. “You know what you must do,” she whispered harshly in her ear.

Estelle squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners. She nodded imperceptibly.

“Now scream,” Sophie hissed.

Estelle took a deep breath and did as the British agent instructed, a hysterical, frantic sound that went on and on. Sophie shoved her toward the sergeant and bolted through the door. Estelle fell to her hands and knees, her teeth clacking hard, her breath coming in gasps.

Schwarz bellowed and pursued the agent out of the suite, joining the chase.

Alone, Estelle half stumbled, half crawled across the empty salon toward the painting. She tugged frantically at the toolbox, pulling it out from behind the frame. Sophie’s pretty, beaded handbag rested exactly where Estelle had known it would be. She snatched it from behind the painting and tucked it under her arm.

As she did, the cover slid from the painting. Unsteadily, Estelle stood, her eyes fixed on Polyxena, still in her flowing cobalt tunic, her mother still desperately trying to reach her around the soldiers who held her firm. Except now, something had changed. Perhaps it was a trick of light or perhaps it was something else entirely, but Polyxena no longer looked resigned. Instead she looked resolute.

Estelle turned away from the painting and made her way back toward the suite’s door. She exited, pulling the door closed firmly behind her. There was no one about. Wherever Sophie had led her pursuers, they were gone. She wiped her face, straightened her shoulders, and, with Sophie’s handbag securely clutched in her hand, made her way back downstairs.