“No.” She sighed. “Navarre would have been pleased, though, with how he turned out. He had Lucien an expert on the radio in no time, and he did have good things to teach us. Once I got past his Cockney accent—and after he shaved—he’s been a good addition to the team.”
Marcel hadn’t run into him after that first night, but he’d assumed as much, given that she hadn’t complained about him. “And he still doesn’t suspect that you’re POZ 55?”
She hesitated, then lifted her hands. “If he suspects, he hasn’t said anything to me, and it doesn’t seem as though he’s indicated it to MI6.”
Probably good, though to his mind, her work ought to speakfor itself. What did it matter what gender she was, when she was capable of more than the rest of them put together?
Of course, he knew that wasn’t the common view among military men, and military men were the ones in charge of everything.
She leaned her head against the window. “Next time I’m in Paris—assuming it happens again—I should ask Georges Piers what he knows about Blanchet. Perhaps they’re acquainted.”
They filled the drive with easy conversation. They talked through the orchestra’s schedule into the fall and winter, and the holiday they’d take for much of December, so that all his musicians could be home with their families for Advent. They laughed together over Vivi’s latest lapse in remembering Marcel’s no-smoking-inside rule, and how when he’d come into the office last week and found her with a smoldering cigarette in hand, she’d panicked and put it out in the cup of coffee she’d poured for him.
Dusk was falling by the time she motioned for him to turn onto a little dirt lane that meandered up a hill. They’d passed the château that her family owned but were renting out, and he’d tried not to stare too long at it in the last golden rays of sunlight.
It didn’t matter. A glimpse was all he needed to hammer home the observation from hours earlier.Thatwas where she belonged. Meanwhile, his parents lived in a townhouse that shared walls with other families, cramped enough that he and his brother had shared a room all their lives. And he’d never wished for more.
Well, other than more concert tickets. But one could never have enough ofthose.
The lane ended at a farmhouse that had the old but comfortable look of a place he could feel at home. A lorry rested inside the open door to a barn, and another car was parked in front of it. He didn’t recognize it, but it must be how their brothers had gotten here, because even as he pulled in alongside, both Raoul and Antoine were striding from the house.
Marcel greeted Raoul with a laugh and an embrace. When hepulled away, two smaller figures were darting out the door, shouting, “Maman! Maman!”
Zelie dropped to her knees there on the path, arms open and tears streaming down her cheeks again. Both children barreled into her, talking over each other and hugging and kissing. Blaise had his mother’s dark hair, Elise golden curls that most likely came from the woman leaning in the doorway with a smile on her face and lines bracketing her mouth and eyes to attest to plenty of laughter in her years. Zelie’s mother, clearly. They had the same lovely features, in different shades.
Zelie held her children as if she never meant to let them go, her face that same blend of joy and grief that he’d seen when she was playing Rachmaninoff on Grigoryan’s Bösendorfer.
Raoul slung an arm over Marcel’s shoulders and chuckled. “I’d say it’s about time you go stupid over a woman, but... not sure that’s a wise choice for you, brother.”
Marcel dragged his gaze away. And sent Raoul a glare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure. And Emile gave up sucking his thumb at age five, just like he claims.”
Marcel laughed and let his brother pull him toward the house.
Eleven
How much life could she cram into two and a half days? Zelie gave Elise a push on the swing secured from a tree limb, soaking in her little girl’s giggles even as she snuck another glance at where Blaise sat with a book, ignoring them.
His mood had quickly plummeted last night as they had dinner and got caught up. Had he thought she was coming to join them for good? Taking him out of school? She’d never said anything to make him think that likely, but every mention of Marseille or Pau or Paris had his frown deepening.
He’d scarcely said two words to her this morning—as opposed to Elise, who’d been chattering nonstop in a way that at once charmed Zelie and left her struggling to keep up. She’d grown accustomed to succinct reports, quick exchanges, and mountains of paperwork. A far cry from a talkative six-year-old who fluttered from topic to topic like the butterflies she’d apparently chased all over the countryside that summer.
Zelie had clearly been spending too much time at her desk. Her arms ached from the pushing. She stuck it out as long as shecould, then declared with a laugh, “Maman needs a break. Swing on your own for a while?”
She was perfectly capable, of course. Elise pumped her legs and belted out a nonsense song as Zelie angled away from the swing and toward Blaise. She sat beside him on the step to the kitchen door.
He didn’t even look up.
“Grand-maman mentioned needing a few things from town today,” she said, glancing down at his book. He hadn’t turned many pages in the half hour since he’d planted himself on the step. “Would you come with me to pick them up?”
“Why? You don’t need me for that.” His tone was too hard for a boy who’d just turned ten. Too bitter.
Her eyes burned. Blast the tears, so close to the surface ever since she’d learned of Navarre’s arrest.I’m not like you. I only want to keep my children safe.Josette’s parting words speared through Zelie anew.
Guilt burned at the wound, eating away at her like acid. She was doing this for them, always for them. But how to explain that? How to convince a child that the separation was necessary, for their protection?
She reached out to smooth his hair down.
