Marianne drifted in a haze, not of alcohol (the hostess never had more than one glass of punch—this too she had learned from the countess), but of relief. She had managed to continue the immodest tradition of the harvest party, even as the nation was swept up in this wave of rigid and peevish militancy. And she had managed to transcend her own upbringing (how mortified her father would be to see her throw a party featuring jazz dancing and champagne toasts) and provide these people with something lovely, liberating, and ethereal.

Buoyed along by this thought, she greeted guests, checked on the liquor behind the bar, the food on the buffet. “The countess junior!” a jolly, quick-tongued cousin of Connie’s cried, wrapping a thick arm around her shoulders. “What a party! But where is your esteemed husband? And all his high-minded friends! I haven’t seen a one of those trolls for the past hour! Are they holed up in some sort of elite gathering without their old chum Jochen?”

“No, no.” Marianne waved him off with a kiss on his cheek. But his question was a good one. Where was Albrecht? And for that matter Connie and Hans and Gerhardt Friedlander? She had not seen them for some time. Albrecht had probably pulled them into the library to review his letter. The thought irritated her. Albrecht’s sobriety—his constant ability to focus on the world beyond what was directly beneath his nose—felt like a reproach. He was right, of course. Poor Ernst vom Rath lay in some hospital bed and thousands of Jews slept out in the cold borderland. Germany was being run by a loudmouthed rabble-rouser, bent on baiting other nations to war and making life miserable for countless innocent citizens. And here they were, drinking champagne and dancing to Scott Joplin.

In a state of defensive irritation she burst into Albrecht’s study, where, yes, there they were—all her missing guests: Albrecht and Connie, Hans and Gerhardt, Torsten Frye and the American, Sam Beverwill, and a few others, many of whom, like Connie, worked as staff officers in the Abwehr, the military intelligence office.

“What’s this?” she said, trying to make her voice light. “A secret, serious party? The countess will not be pleased to know you’re all skulking about in the study instead of dancing.”

“Marianne—” Albrecht said.

“Albrecht! Let your guests come out and enjoy the evening—”

As she spoke, she noticed a new person in their midst: a short, dark-haired man, balding, with a kind of intensity to his homely face. The energy in the room was odd; the men’s faces remained grave and unchanged by her appearance.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the new man. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Pietre Grabarek.” He stepped forward and extended his hand. A Pole. Albrecht and Connie both had many contacts in the Polish National Party.

“Marianne von Lingenfels. The wife of your sober host here,” she said, gesturing toward Albrecht.

“Marianne—” Albrecht interjected again. “Pietre has traveled from Munich with some alarming news. This evening—”