He stifles a groan as he struggles to slide the window open. “Help me, will you?”

I do, though I hesitate at the contortion of his features from the pain he’s attempting to suppress. When he reaches for the supplies, I pull them to my chest. “No, wait.”

“For what?”

“Arie, you’re in no shape for this.”

He clenches his jaw, impatient. “Hand them over once I’m in.” Without letting me respond, he glances between the drapes, then tries to climb in with one hand. Almost immediately, his body contracts, rendering him breathless.

I cradle his face and angle it toward me. “Please, Arie, just think. I know what to do. And it will be faster if I go, and safer. We’re a team now. You need to trust me. I can get her.”

His reluctance remains, but his determination is wavering, pride yielding. I detect in his eyes that he finds sense in what I’ve said and, more than ever, that I have his trust. “I’ll watch for the guard,” he submits. A small relief.

As he moves out of the way, I stuff the supplies into my coat pockets and strive to level my nerves. I take my own peek and, by the slant of light I’m letting in, confirm the vacancy of a library. Five minutes. This will all take five minutes.

Pushing past the blackout drapes, I climb through the window and barely miss a wheeled cart. A collision with its decanters would have been disastrous.

I inhale a breath, and with it the scent of leatherbound books from the expanse of shelves. In the corner, a large globe hulks between two wingback chairs, huddled together like ancient scholars.

“Fen.”

I spin toward the curtains, held open by Arie.

“Quick but quiet.”

I nod, and he lets the drapes close. Vision adjusting, I cross the wooden floor and pad over an area rug to reach the door. I grip the ornate knob. At its squeak, I bristle.

And listen.

No consequential sound.

I resume my task, half an inch at a time, and open the door a smidge. Illumination from a distant room gives me pause. But again no noise. No indication of a worrisome presence.

Out of the library, I tiptoe through the hall. A trace of sweetness floats in the air. A recently baked pastry. It’s a luxury denied most people and a reason to despise the Nazis even more, if that’s possible.

French doors ajar on my left suggest a darkened ballroom. Following the diagram in my mind, I continue into the foyer. Blacked-out windows flank the front door, a mere slab of wood separating me from the guard. I push away the thought and turn for the lavish staircase set off from the parlor, in which a dimly lit chandelier highlights the room’s finery.