“My husband, he has a cosmetics company. He sells cosmetics. I am helping him.” The knot at her wrist slipped a little farther.

“Cosmetics?” Someone laughed. “In the middle of a fucking war? You’re lying.”

“I am telling the truth. You can look at my papers. You’ll find them all in order.”

Sophie gasped as something hit her in the face. It took her a moment to realize that someone had thrown a pail of icy water at her.

“You are a spy,” the voice continued. “You are travelling across France and spying.”

“I am n-not a spy. M-my family owns a s-small company in Marseille. My husband took over from my father when he died. We make lipsticks and powders.” The shock of the water was starting to wear off, though Sophie was shivering. “We wish to sell them here, in Paris.”

“And who the fuck buys lipstick and powder?”

“We sell to German officers’ wives. Sometimes Frenchwomen.” She slipped one hand free of the rope, catching it with her fingers. “It is simple economics, Monsieur. We have something to sell that is very much in demand. And in Paris, we can get a better price.”

A man stepped into the pool of light, the runes on his collar displaying his SS rank of major. The hard soles of his boots struck the stone floor as he dragged a small table beside Sophie. He was heavy featured, his dark eyes flat and hard and his expression cruel above the lifeless grey of his uniform. Despite her best efforts, a shudder of revulsion rolled through her.

“Do you know what we do to spies, Madame Beaufort?” the major asked.

Sophie averted her eyes and forced herself to continue to stare straight ahead. “I’m not a spy. I work with my husband.”

“I don’t believe you. What could you possibly do to help him?”

“I take photos of our clients for our adverts and to promote our products. The photos are with my papers. You can see for yourself.”

“Oh, I saw the photos. The Führer abhors cosmetics on his women, and I can see why. A passel of painted jezebels pretending to be someone they’re not. And half those photos you speak of were of you.”

“Sometimes I model our cosmetics too.”

“You model cosmetics?” he sneered. He reached for a leather tool belt that was laid out on top of the small table and withdrew a pair of pliers. “Not for much longer, I’m afraid. I can’t imagine there is much demand for a model with no teeth. You’ll tell me who you’re working for, what information you are passing on, and where I can find these people. Because after we finish with your pretty teeth, we still have your nails to attend to.”