No more than five feet in front of her, another man in another threadbare suit had emerged, an identically folded paper under his arm. He stopped and glanced up, blue eyes clashing with hers before he looked away almost as quickly as Jerome had. Estelle frowned. Beneath the battered hat he wore, his face was ashen, his expression strained, bruised shadows under his eyes. He was ill. Or, more likely, injured. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do about it now. He had survived the train journey from Belgium—he would need to survive just a little longer, and then she could deal with whatever ailed him.

Estelle resumed her unhurried walk, angling west, away from the station and toward the streets. She checked her lipstick one last time, the reflection in her mirror confirming that the man with the bright blue eyes was walking behind her. She dropped her compact back into her handbag and picked up her pace. Every minute that she was exposed with a man who likely did not speak a word of French was a minute too long.

She wound her way through the streets, Sacré-Coeur intermittently looming up on its hill to the north between buildings. Here, away from the train station and in the labyrinth of streets lined with apartments and shops and cafés, Estelle relaxed fractionally. This close to her flat, each corner was familiar.

At the boulangerie on the corner, the queue was already long, hunger and weariness etched on each face. A Jewish family passed her, the yellow stars bright against their clothing. People on bicycles wove through the street, dodging the occasional pony cart. It wasn’t often she saw vehicles anymore, unless they were military, and the little red-and-black flags affixed to each were a constant reminder of the evil that had consumed her city.

Estelle continued walking, and her stomach rumbled as the scent of baked bread broke through the heavier smells of horse manure and dust. She had eaten last night but nerves had kept her from dipping into her dwindling rations this morning. This was far from the first time she had collected an Allied fugitive, but the fear of discovery never went away. If anything, she’d become more anxious over time, though she supposed that wasn’t a bad thing. It had kept her alert and careful, and she was still here when others had ominously vanished.

Estelle entered her building, glancing behind her as she pulled open the door. Blue-eyes was still behind her, though his gait was decidedly uneven. She would need to get him upstairs as quickly as possible. She paused at the bottom of the stairs to listen for the sound of footsteps but only silence met her. She was always cognizant of those who came and went—one could never become too comfortable, even here.