In the end, once the Le Brun canvas had been removed and wrapped, Estelle had retrieved this painting from behind her dressing room wall to show to Sophie. The agent had said nothing as Estelle had propped it up against her writing desk, only stared at it with an impenetrable expression.

“What do you think?” Estelle had asked finally.

Sophie transferred her pale gaze to Estelle, and Estelle once again had the unnerving sensation that this woman was peering directly into her soul.

“It’s a painting of you,” Sophie said simply.

“It looks nothing like me.”

“Fearless defiance and unassailable courage. That is who you are.” Sophie put her hand lightly on Estelle’s arm. “And I am honoured to be fighting beside you.”

Estelle had covered the agent’s hand with her own, her throat tight. “And I you.”

Estelle should have restored the painting to its rightful place above the hearth but there had been no time. And it was too late now. The nude woman, with her midnight hair and outstretched hands, would stay as she was, greeting whoever might enter this apartment next with her unapologetic boldness. She would remain a keeper of the secrets and stories hidden within these walls for as long as necessary.

And she would remain a reminder to Estelle of the faith and trust that Sophie had placed in her.

Estelle turned from the painting and exited quickly, locking the door behind her. From across the hall, she heard the muffled wail of a baby followed by a raised voice and a clatter. Steps approached from within, but by the time Frau Hoffmann opened her apartment door, Estelle was already down the stairs.

She had a plane to catch, somewhere near Gasny.

Chapter ​22

Chapter
​22

Sophie

Paris, France
8 September 1943

Sophie woke to blackness.

She thought her eyes were open but she could see nothing. Maybe she’d been blinded, she thought rather distantly. She tried to raise her hands to touch her face, but pain ripped through her and made her gasp. Her arms were broken, she was reasonably sure. As were both her legs. Her mind examined the pain there, as if she were poking herself from a distance, and decided that as long as she didn’t move, the dull throbbing in her lower legs was merely a steady count of her heartbeats.

A peculiar thought.

She licked her cracked, dry lips, thinking how lovely a sip of water might be. No, she amended, a glass of lemonade the way Piotr used to make it. Not enough sugar and too much lemon but delicious for its startling tartness all the same. She smiled at the memory before sharp bee stings stabbed at her lips where they were split.