“Bonjour.”That one was Henri. His door opened, the seat squealed, then it closed again. “Heading into Spain again, Monsieur Poirot. Here are my papers, as always.”
“Ah,” Poirot said, “bad luck. This train is an hour early and will be pulling out in five minutes. We don’t have time to load your car. You’ll have to wait for the next one.”
Suddenly the air coming through the slits didn’t seem rich enough.
She could imagine Henri’s scowl. “How long until the next one?”
“Eight hours.”
Eight! Zelie squeezed her eyes shut.No, no, no, no, no.
“That’s far too long to wait.” Could the attendant hear the panic in his voice as clearly as she did? No doubt he’d be thinking she’d suffocate if they waited that long. “Never mind. I’ll drive through the pass.”
Poirot scoffed a laugh. “Are you out of your mind, Boutron? You’ll never make it in this snow.”
“I’m used to driving in snow and ice. I’ll be fine.” A moment later, the door sounded again, and then the car was reversing.
Breathe,Zelie told herself. A careful, slow breath in. A careful, slow breath out. Driving would be treacherous, but it was better than waiting eight hours.
They drove for only a minute, however, before the car slowed again, and Henri’s muttered curse filtered to her ears. “Customs agent,” he said. She heard him roll down the window. “Yes,bonjour.Official Vichy post. I have my papers.”
“I don’t care what you have,monsieur. The pass is closed.”
“Nonsense, I—”
“Monsieur, there are severalfeetof snow in the pass. The road is closed. The only way into Spain until spring is by rail. Now turn around.”
“But—”
“It is not a request. Turn. Around.”
Zelie pressed her lips together. They couldn’tleave—it would look suspicious. They would have to wait.
Her feet tingled. From the position or the cold? Her goose bumps surely had goose bumps at this point—the bag was not exactly a fine winter coat or blanket—but she clenched every muscle in turn to keep from shivering. A shivering mailbag wouldn’t do at all.
“I’m so sorry,” Henri said as they drove up the siding again. “I don’t know what else to do.”
She didn’t dare respond. Poirot was calling out instructions. Henri had warned her that the process of loading the car onto the flatbed took an hour.
It felt like more than that, and the discomfort had flared into pain by the time the car was in place and voices neared again. The men were strapping it down.
Then... nothing. The flatcar would have to wait for the next train. She occasionally heard Henri’s voice, or others, but nothing that meant anything.
At a certain point, she didn’t justfeelpain—shebecamepain. Every muscle, every joint. Her entire body screamed, everything but her mouth. A few tears trickled down her cheeks, but she blinked them back, tamped down the pain.
She couldn’t afford to cry. Tears meant a stuffy nose, and that would interfere with breathing. She had to hold herself together. For Blaise and Elise. For Maman. For every member of Alliance who was depending on her. For Henri.
For Marcel, who didn’t know where she was or if she was free.If she died in this wretched mailbag, how long would it be before he found out? Would he mourn her?
She knew he would. She could still see the look in his eyes at the bistro the other night. Feel his fingers around hers, the breath that feathered over her face as he spoke, so close. She could hear Maman’s words.He’s in love with you, you know.
It didn’t matter.Couldn’tmatter. He deserved better than her, better than a woman who’d already been deemed unworthy. And if she survived this, if she ever got back to Marseille... she’d put distance between them. Let someone else meet him for his updates. It was cruel of her to keep him close just becausesheneeded the friend. She needed to focus on what was necessary, on rebuilding Alliance, on finding the people MI6 needed so desperately in North Africa, and put aside the way he drew her to old dreams, dreams filled with music and art and a different sort of life.
That wasn’t the life she’d chosen. Not before, when she’d given up conservatory for Jacques. Not now, when she’d taken over for Navarre. Perhaps that was their why—to reclaim the world in which arts and culture could thrive—but it wasn’t the how.
She needed to be a soldier, not an artist. And Marcel... he was a distraction. One she needed to cut free.
Lovely. Now her heart hurt as much as her body.
