Meanwhile, another day of searching goes by. Another dinner, air raid, and evening walk—with girls I met at the dance, I claim—and still no trace of him.

Doggedly, I charge on through Tuesday. I wall off a pooling of doubt, though with each passing hour and cumulative mile, cracks in that barrier form and grow. The slow leak of grimness seeps through, by nightfall becoming a steady stream.

On my fourth afternoon, resting my throbbing feet in the square, I pause my sketching at the sight of a woman. Her colorful dress and turban-like headscarf remind me of Madame Esme, bringing me to a thought: given all my years with Arie and the bond we long shared, one might suggest he’d sense my presence from a channeling of energy. A fantastical idea, maybe sheer nonsense, but I’m willing to try almost anything.

Closing my eyes, I strive to mute the noise of the square: the chatter, the footsteps, the lone street organ playing in the distance.

Arie, if you can hear this…please, trace my voice…here to this spot…

A hand touches my elbow. I jump and my eyelids fly open.

There’s a fellow before me but wrinkled and silver-haired, a vendor with a flower cart. He holds out a wilting bouquet for me to consider. I manage a polite shake of my head.

No longer theoretical, my plan feels downright absurd. This is a city, not some little town. By now, it’s even possible Arie has heard about Bram, whether of the agent’s fate or goal, and altered his route. That’s assuming a replacement for Bram hasn’t arrived, tracking down Arie first and—

I squash the thought and promptly replace it. If anything, Arie has finished his own purpose here—whatever in heaven’s name that was—and fled the vicinity, maybe even the country, to a place of safety.

In which event, and in all likelihood, I’m chasing but a shadow.

Chapter 57

In my boarding room that night, I contemplate not by lamp but candlelight, as the power companies periodically cut resources to conserve power for the German war industry. I’m too restless to retire into my nightclothes, never mind to sleep. Only two full days remain before I’m to travel an hour south to my contact in Tilburg, my entry to the escape line.

Seated on my bed, I leaf through the false documents meant to deliver me on trains through Belgium and France, then into neutral Switzerland by a guided hike.

With Arie, I’d hoped.

I cringe at the idea of abandoning him—again. As if once wasn’t already unforgivable. But how long before all my roaming and sketching raise suspicions by observers?