“That’s my point exactly. We must—”

“They were cruel because we were at war with them, Isabelle. Pétain has saved us from going through that again. He has kept us safe. He has stopped the war. Now Antoine and all our men will come home.”

“To a Heil Hitler world?” Isabelle said with a sneer. “‘The flame of French resistance must not and shall not die.’ That’s what de Gaulle said. We have to fight however we can. For France, V. So it stays France.”

“Enough,” Vianne said. She moved close enough that she could have whispered to Isabelle, or kissed her, but Vianne did neither. In a steady, even voice, she said, “You will take Sophie’s room upstairs and she will move in with me. And remember this, Isabelle, he could shoot us. Shoot us, and no one would care. You will not provoke this soldier in my home.”

She saw the words hit home. Isabelle stiffened. “I will try to hold my tongue.”

“Do more than try.”

NINE

Vianne closed the bedroom door and leaned against it, trying to calm her nerves. She could hear Isabelle pacing in the room behind her, moving with an anger that made the floorboards tremble. How long did Vianne stand there alone, trembling, trying to get her nerves under control? It felt like hours passed while she struggled with her fear.

In ordinary times, she would have found the strength to talk rationally with her sister, to say some of the things that had long been unspoken. Vianne would have told Isabelle how sorry she was for the way she’d treated her as a little girl. Maybe she could have made Isabelle understand.

Vianne had been so helpless after Maman’s death. When Papa had sent them away, to live in this small town, beneath the cold, stern eyes of a woman who had shown the girls no love, Vianne had … wilted.

In another time, she might have shared with Isabelle what they had in common, how undone she’d been by Maman’s death, how Papa’s rejection had broken her heart. Or how he treated her at sixteen when she’d come to him, pregnant and in love … and been slapped across the face and called a disgrace. How Antoine had pushed Papa back, hard, and said, I’m going to marry her.

And Papa’s answer: Fine, she’s all yours. You can have the house. But you’ll take her squalling sister, too.

Vianne closed her eyes. She hated to think about all of that; for years, she’d practically forgotten it. Now, how could she push it aside? She had done to Isabelle exactly what their father had done to them. It was the greatest regret of Vianne’s life.

But this was not the time to repair that damage.

Now she had to do everything in her power to keep Sophie safe until Antoine came home. Isabelle would simply have to be made to understand that.

With a sigh, she went downstairs to check on supper.

In the kitchen, she found her potato soup simmering a bit too briskly, so she uncovered it and lowered the heat.

“Madame? Are you sanguine?”

She flinched at the sound of his voice. When had he come in here? She took a deep breath and patted her hair. It was not the word he meant. Really, his French was terrible.

“That smells delicious,” he said, coming up behind her.

She set the wooden spoon down on the rest beside the stove.

“May I see what you are making?”

“Of course,” she said, both of them pretending her wishes mattered. “It’s just potato soup.”

“My wife, alas, is not much of a cook.”

He was right beside her now, taking Antoine’s place, a hungry man peering down at a cooking dinner.

“You are married,” she said, reassured by it, although she couldn’t say why.

“And a baby soon to be born. We are planning to call him Wilhelm, although I will not be there when he is born, and of course, such decisions must inevitably be his mother’s.”

It was such a … human thing to say. She found herself turning slightly to look at him. He was her height, almost exactly, and it unnerved her; looking directly into his eyes made her feel vulnerable.

“God willing, we will all be home soon,” he said.

He wants this over, too, she thought with relief.

“It’s suppertime, Herr Captain. Will you be joining us?”

“It would be an honor, Madame. Although you will be pleased to hear that most evenings I will be working late and enjoying my supper with the officers. I shall also often be out on campaigns. You shall sometimes hardly notice my presence.”

Vianne left him in the kitchen and carried silverware into the dining room, where she almost ran into Isabelle.

“You shouldn’t be alone with him,” Isabelle hissed.

The captain came into the room. “You cannot think I would accept your hospitality and then do harm? Consider this night. I have brought you wine. A lovely Sancerre.”

“You brought us wine,” Isabelle said.

“As any good guest would,” he answered.

Vianne thought, oh, no, but there was nothing she could do to stop Isabelle from speaking.

“You know about Tours, Herr Captain?” Isabelle asked. “How your Stukas fired on innocent women and children who were fleeing for their lives and dropped bombs on us?”

“Us?” he said, his expression turning thoughtful.

“I was there. You see the marks on my face.”

“Ah,” he said. “That must have been most unpleasant.”

Isabelle went very still. The green of her eyes seemed to blaze against the red marks and bruises on her pale skin. “Unpleasant.”

“Think about Sophie,” Vianne reminded her evenly.

Isabelle gritted her teeth and then turned it into a fake smile. “Here, Captain Beck, let me show you to your seat.”

Vianne took her first decent breath in at least an hour. Then, slowly, she headed into the kitchen to dish up supper.

*   *   *

Vianne served supper in silence. The atmosphere at the table was as heavy as coal soot, settling on all of them. It frayed Vianne’s nerves to the breaking point. Outside, the sun began to set; pink light filled the windows.

“Would you care for wine, Mademoiselle?” Beck said to Isabelle, pouring himself a large glass of the Sancerre he had brought to the table.

“If ordinary French families can’t afford to drink it, Herr Captain, how can I enjoy it?”

“A sip perhaps would not be—”

Isabelle finished her soup and got to her feet. “Excuse me. I am feeling sick to my stomach.”

“Me, too,” Sophie said. She got to her feet and followed her aunt out of the room like a puppy follows the lead dog, with her head down.

Vianne sat perfectly still, her soup spoon held above her bowl. They were leaving her alone with him.

Her breathing was a flutter in her chest. She carefully set down her spoon and dabbed at her mouth with her serviette. “Forgive my sister, Herr Captain. She is impetuous and willful.”

“My oldest daughter is such a girl. We expect nothing but trouble when she gets a little older.”

That surprised Vianne so much that she turned. “You have a daughter?”

“Gisela,” he said, his mouth curving into a smile. “She is six and already her mother is unable to get her to reliably do the simplest of tasks—like brush her teeth. Our Gisela would rather build a fort than read a book.” He sighed, smiling.

It flustered her, knowing this about him. She tried to think of a response, but her nerves were too overwrought. She picked up her spoon and began eating again.

The meal seemed to go on forever, in a silence that was her undoing. The moment he finished, saying, “A lovely meal. My thanks,” she got to her feet and began clearing the table.

Thankfully, he didn’t follow her into the kitchen. He remained in the dining room, at the table by himself, drinking the wine he’d brought, which she knew would have tasted of autumn—pears and apples.

By the time she’d washed and dried the dishes, and put them away, night had fallen. She left the house, stepping into the starlit front yard for a moment’s peace. On the stone garden wall, a shadow moved; it was a cat perhaps.