By my estimation, given the staff’s lighter workload at night and the hospital’s mazelike layout from being a commandeered school, the real nurse wouldn’t be missed for at least a few hours. Likely more, thanks to an inattentive supervisor, by Arie’s description. In fact, if the entry guard believes he saw the nurse leave, a search very possibly wouldn’t start until the following day.

For any of this to happen, of course, we’ll need sleeping pills. Fast-acting and potent.

I’m pondering this in my lamplit boarding room, the return of electricity a welcome treat, when I hear the clanking of pots. Upstairs, Mrs. van der Meer is busy preparing dinner. Klara and Dirk too are preoccupied, laughing next door.

Since my goal is purely reconnaissance at first—in case Mrs. van der Meer keeps a close inventory count—I consider going now. It could be even safer than waiting for the quiet, late hours. Seizing the chance, I throw my rigged hairpins and tricked-out lipstick into a deep pocket of my cardigan. Then I tiptoe through the hall and down the stairs, avoiding creaky planks.

At the base, two doors greet me. The one straight ahead empties into the square, and that to my left offers a side entry into the pharmacy, which is the knob I try.

Locked as expected. With my hairpin-disguised picks, I navigate the aged mechanisms with ease despite my humming nerves.

Once inside the darkened shop, I illuminate the flashlight built into my lipstick tube. I shut the door without sound and move past the windows covered in cardboard blackout squares. Beyond the counter, I reach the back room—also locked. Again, I rely on my picking skills to enter. With the space too closet-like for sealing myself in, I leave the door open a crack.

Beaming my light, I scan the U-shaped configuration of shelves. Only partially stocked. Bare sections, empty jars. I’d venture to guess the Germans have raided supplies, hoarding all but the basics. I investigate what’s left.

Various herbs, petals, and roots sit segregated among glass bottles of myriad shapes and sizes. A mortar and pestle further evidence the crafting of homemade remedies. Among the smaller jars thankfully are pills. But with all of them white, they look practically the same. Most are labeled in a messy hand. Of what I can read, nothing indicates a sedative. Abbreviations and medical jargon, in a combination of Dutch and Latin, fail to ease my task.

I resort to inspecting powders, with no added luck. I even sniff bottles of liquids, the most pungent causing me to wince. After pressing through a wave of wooziness, I still find nothing recognizably useful.

Leaning back against a shelf, I groan. “Somewhere in here, there has to be—”

A scratching noise jolts me. I whip toward the door just as it swings open. My heart stops at the sight of two eyes, the pupils bright from my flashlight.