Estelle deliberately knocked two tins off the shelf with a deafening clatter. “This space is not to my satisfaction at all,” she snapped loudly as she yanked her dress off. She tossed it aside and retrieved the yellow confection from where it still lay on the floor. She pulled it hastily over her head. “It is filthy.”

On the other side of the door, the German laughed.

The yellow dress was a good fit, the cut beautiful, the fabrics luxurious, and the color, she knew, would flatter her complexion. She hated everything about it.

The closet door rattled. “Mademoiselle?”

Estelle retrieved her own dress and jammed her feet into her shoes. She snatched her handbag from the shelf, unlatched the door, and pulled it open.

“A horrid room,” she complained. “Not even a mirror.”

Hesse only smirked. “Whores do not need mirrors.”

“I am not a whore.” She tried to sound suitably indignant.

“You are all whores,” he spat in German. “An entire city full of entitled, weak women.”

Estelle crossed her arms. “Is Colonel Meyer done yet?” she demanded.

“Shortly, I’m sure.”

“Then you may tell him that I will wait at the bar,” Estelle said with as much haughty arrogance as she could manage. She needed to get away. Needed to get out of these rooms. Needed to gather the information that was swirling around in her head into a logical, clear list that could be passed on to London.

Provided London still existed.

“And you may tell the Reichsmarschall that his gift has left me speechless,” Estelle continued.

The aide’s expression was sour. “Of course.”

“And you can also tell him that, one day soon, I hope I can repay him for what he has done.”

In the end, it hadn’t been Colonel Meyer who had seen Estelle back to her apartment. He had sent his regrets along with a wrapped parcel from the kitchens and a driver and car to escort her home. The ride had been almost intolerable, the big, black car rolling through the carcass of a once vibrant city. Instead of neighbourhood streets filled with throngs of evening revelers, the boulevards and avenues were now silent and empty, a bleak warren devoid of life. Windows and doors that once blazed with warm, welcoming light were now sealed and shuttered, adding to the sense that the entire city had been abandoned.

Perhaps, Estelle mused as the car slipped through the suffocating darkness, this was a little like how it might feel to be buried alive.

The Citroën had barely stopped before Estelle was out, slipping into her building with both a profound sense of relief and an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. Every moment she spent in the web of the Reich bled the soul something terrible. She reached the stairs and put a hand on the bannister, a mere suggestion in the gloom, and hurried up toward her apartment. She reached her door and unlocked it by feel, closing it silently behind her as if a wooden barrier could insulate her from the misery outside. She took a single step into her darkened apartment before she stilled, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. There was something that wasn’t quite right—