“I have nine lives. It’s what my mother used to say. I wasn’t an overly careful child, and probably took a few years off of hers.”

“Well, a cat didn’t do this.” Estelle put the cloth back in the basin, watching as the water turned pink. “How did this happen?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Please don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Shut me out.”

His forehead creased. “Not knowing should make you feel safer.”

“It doesn’t.” She sat down on the chair next to Jerome. “It just makes me feel…alone.”

“Alone? You’ve hardly been alone here, Allard. Your apartment has been the damn Ritz Hotel of our escape line.”

“You’re right, I suppose.”

“I hear a but in that.”

She sighed. “But did you know that, out of all the men who have stayed in this apartment, I’ve never known any of their true names? I’ve never sat down with them over a meal or a glass of wine to talk about anything personal because it’s safer for everyone if no one knows anything about you.

“I arrive at those damn hotels and restaurants alone, pretending to be someone I’m not, feigning friendship, concealing the hate, and trusting no one. Safer that way, you see. Later, I pass on what information I collect to people whose real names I will also never know, people who will likewise never ask mine.”

Jerome was quiet, his long fingers splayed over the knees of his patched trousers.

“Aviva depends on me to be smart and stay safe, so all this complaining I’m doing right now is stupid, I know. But there are just moments when the selfish part of me would like to feel…seen. By someone who knows me. Just once, I would like someone to call me by my real name and ask how my day was.” She laughed weakly. “I’m sorry. Just ignore my ramblings. I’m not sure why I’m like this tonight—”

“Estelle.”

She stilled. It was the first time Jerome had called her anything other than Allard, or driver, or mademoiselle.

Slowly, he stood up from the chair. “The Gestapo were all over Gare du Nord this morning. Checking papers, forcing people into trucks, taking them who knows where. I had an airman with me who spoke no French. We backtracked through the rail yards before they saw us and escaped under a fence.” He touched his neck. “It was a tight fit.”

“Ah. Is he safe? Your airman?”

“Yes. He is no longer in Paris, because this city is no longer safe. Not that it ever was,” he rushed on, “but they are getting bolder in their cruelty.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.”