Corinne and Georges both nodded. “All our family is in the north,” she said. “I have some friends in the south though. Should I put you in touch?”
And this was why they were meeting. Zelie smiled and leaned back as the waiter returned with three cups, which he dealt out like cards before pouring the steaming coffee and cool milk into each of them in turn. “Not yet, so far as I know. Though it’s good to know there are other friends about if we have need of them.”
Corinne’s shoulders eased down a bit and she sent a quick glance to her uncle, making Zelie think she was as anxious as Zelie about sharing too much information on their contacts. “Do you have many friends in academia and the book world? I admit that’s where most of mine live these days.”
Zelie shook her head. She’d never gone to school beyond thelycées. And while Navarre had, military school was different. “I’ve met a talented musician who has friends all through the art world, but I don’t think it includes publishing or authors, certainly not academia.”
Now Corinne gave her a smile worthy of a magazine cover. “Sounds as though our different circles will prove complementary rather than rivals.”
“Indeed.” And one thing she’d learned early on was that it never hurt to have more friends.
She hoped the others MI6 had promised to send her would prove as desirable.
Four
24 APRIL 1941
Music first wove its way into Marcel’s dreams, a soundtrack to the images flashing through his mind. Then it pulled him to wakefulness, its tug irresistible even when fighting exhaustion. He opened his eyes, expecting the song to fade like the dream.
It didn’t.
He blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling, awareness easing into place. The room was far more luxurious than any he’d ever slept in, so ludicrously far from the POW camp that he couldn’t help but remember Grigoryan in the next moment. The sheets beneath him were softer than a cloud, and he wore borrowed silk pajamas as delightful as they were ridiculous.
And that was Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto in C minor. One of the most beautiful—and most challenging—piano solos ever written. A recording?
He listened for a moment, sitting up to clear his head and ears of down pillows and silk cases. Definitelynota record. He pushed to his feet and nearly exited the room then and there—thankfully, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
Right. Oversized pajamas. That wouldn’t do.
Grigoryan had waved a hand at the armoire when he’d shown Marcel to this room yesterday afternoon, saying he’d find clothing in there. Now he tugged open the drawers, caught between a frown and a laugh. Those werehisclothes. As in, the ones he’d left in his flat, thinking he’d return in a month or two. He’d been a prisoner of war by the time the rent he’d prepaid would have run out, and he’d assumed his belongings had been tossed into the rubbish bin.
Grigoryan hadsaidhe’d been planning this for a long time—clearly he’d meant it, if he’d collected Marcel’s things for him. He opened other drawers around the room, too, and saw that each one was filled with his possessions.
Tears stung his eyes. Not lost. His things... and him. All he’d worked for. Every dream he’d dreamed. Not lost. Here, cared for by a stranger who’d decided they’d be friends.
Rachmaninoff demanded his attention again.
A quick change and he was following his ears down the stairs and into a chamber that doubled as both library and music room. He must have been expecting to step inside and see one of his colleagues, another recruit of Grigoryan’s. He was wrong.
Zelie Bellerose played with the posture of one who’d had a strict teacher, the skill of one who’d spent long hours studying, and the passion of one who loved music to her very soul. He edged farther into the room, trying to stay out of her peripheral vision so he didn’t distract her and yet catch a glimpse of her face.
The window helped, letting him see a dim reflection of her as the piece moved toward its ending under her slender, elegant fingers. He was accustomed to professionals—people who had trained not only their fingers but their expressions. Zelie’s face showed rapture and grief both—dulceanddoloroso—in a mix so intoxicating he had to lean against a bookcase for support.
It was the sudden freedom—that was all. Hope after a year ofhopelessness. French air after months of German. It wasn’ther, lovely as she was. Just all she represented.
A perspective that helped him stand straight again as she played the last notes. As her fingers held still over the keys, he stepped forward, clapping.
Zelie spun on her bench, eyes wide. “Oh! I didn’t know anyone else was in the house.”
Amusement tugged at his lips. When, in a house this size, was it ever truly empty? Though perhaps she was of that class capable of considering staff to be no one. “Do you only play when alone?”
“No, but...” Color infused her cheeks, making her look younger than she likely was. “I don’t generally play in front of professionals who put me to shame. Or for that matter, patrons who are at the Paris Opera every week.”
Ah. Byanyone, she’d specifically meant him and their host. He moved closer, though it was the piano he focused his gaze on now. “You play beautifully.”
Her laugh was but a breath, bordering on self-mocking. “No need to flatter me,monsieur. I know every note I got wrong.”
“Do you know how many you got right?” He glanced at her even as he ran an appreciative hand over the Bösendorfer. Was it...? Yes. A Concert Grand Artisan, a piano so lauded that Debussy and Ravel wrote pieces specifically for it and insisted other pianos would never do the works justice.
