“Could I ask…if there’s something between you two? Because if so, you could tell me.”

His brow dips briefly in puzzlement. “Nah, it’s nothing like that. She’s a devoted wife, mother of three. Her husband’s off at a German war factory, sabotaging parts. What with her capture, I just can’t ask her for anything.” He amends: “I won’t.”

I admit I’m relieved, about Nel if nothing else, until he adds, “All that besides, the escape line’s out for me. It’s dangerous enough for you, but for Evelien? Hiking the Alps, the steep inclines? The snow and cold, the rocky terrain, patrols. Just can’t happen.”

Good gracious. From my whirlwind preparation, I don’t recollect such daunting specifics. Not that it would have deterred me from coming—or leaving. Toting a little one, though, changes the situation, and thus my conclusion.

“You’re right.”

He chuckles. “Can I get that on record?”

“Which is why,” I tell him, “I’d like to stay.” I’m merely expressing a desire, technically adhering to my promise. Still, his dimple vanishes.

“Nuh-uh. No.”

“Just listen to me.”

“I heard you, and I’m saying no.” He drops his feet onto the floor and yanks his drawers on. As he starts toward the washbasin, I center on practicality.

“You know you could use a lookout.”

“Yeah, got Nel’s cousin for that.” Without turning, Arie sips from a cup of water.

“Well, sure,” I say, “from what he’s told you. But you just met the guy. What if he doesn’t show? And even if he does, what about at Ziegler’s? If all goes to plan, Nel and her cousin will be long gone.”

Arie sets down the cup and rounds to face me. “For pity’s sake, Fen. This isn’t like one of your dang picture shows.”

“Actually, it’s very much like those. Lucky for you, I’ve watched them a thousand times.” I’m joking of course—mostly.

“You couldn’t follow me even once without my knowing.”

About this, he isn’t wrong, though it does wound me a little. It also reminds me that I never got around to asking. “How did you know I was there? That night by the hospital.”

He glances off with a roll of his eyes, the topic not a priority. “In front of the pub, when you were crouched in hiding, I saw a corner of your coat on the ground.”

I wince. A rookie flub for one who deals in concealment.

“Look,” he says, “that doesn’t matter.”

“Okay. What does?” I mean to corner him, causing him to stammer for an answer. Instead, he comes back with fervor.

“If anything happened to you, I couldn’t live with myself.” His eyes, the sheer worry in them, make me pause for an instant.

“Then I promise you that nothing will.”

“You can’t possibly promise that.”