Henri frowned. “You had codes set up for such an event?”
“No.”
“Then how would you even know what it means, if he says something?”
Because he knew her. Because she knew him. Because they spoke the same language, because he saw through her every bluster, and she had to think she’d be able to do the same.
None of which would help herno romancepoint. “Maybe I won’t, but it will at least tell us if he’s there. And he could always repurpose some of our existing codes or the ones the BBC broadcasters use to let us know they’ve received our intelligence about art moving.”
“Wait.” He glanced over at her, then back to the road. “What do you mean?”
She grinned and fiddled with the tuner, turning the volume down when static greeted her. “Whenever classic paintings are moved, one of Marcel’s operatives gets us word. We share it with the Maquis and other Resistance groups who sabotage railways so they know not to hit those lines at certain times, as well as the English, so that their bombers know to avoid the new location. When they receive our message, they have one of their BBC broadcasters say,The Mona Lisa is smiling.”
“Clever.”
“Ah, here we go. Radio Paris.” They were still a few minutes early, so she kept the volume low while the current program wrapped up, then raised it when a little ditty signaling the end of that show met her ears.
Lord God...
Hope, fear, dread, and anticipation all tangled up inside and lodged in her throat. What if it was a recording, even the introduction? What would she do?
His voice filled the airwaves, its familiar tone taking hold of her heart even before she processed his words. “Happy Christmas from the youth orchestra. This is conductor Marcel Laurent, praying that your celebrations of this joyous season are filled with family and, especially, reflections upon the Savior who deigned to join humanity.”
Him—it was really him, not something he’d recorded earlier. Well, this would have been on Thursday, Christmas Day, like he’d planned.
He was free.
When he said he had messages for the families of some of his musicians, she perked up. This would give him the perfect opportunity to say something meant for her.
“And to my own special someone, I’ll share the same message as last week, since I’m not certain if you had a chance yet to listen in. As I was visiting my mother the other day, I thought of our favorite quote from Pascal:If one does not love too much, one does not love enough. Happy Christmas,mon amour.”
A cry escaped her lips, despite pressing a hand to her mouth to try to hold it in. He had them—he had Blaise and Elise and had taken them to his mother’s.Lord God...This time, more words came.Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
“Ah.” Henri sent her a bemused look. “Is that a happy squeak or an unhappy squeak?”
Her laughter no doubt told him. “My children are at his mother’s.”
Henri squinted at her. “I suppose he mentioned his mother, but...”
“BlaisePascal, you idiot. At his mother’s.” She leaned back against the seat, pressing a hand to her heart. They were all right.Maman must still be in jail—or else hadn’t known where to find them—but her children were safe. Marcel’s parents would have gone to great lengths to make them feel welcome. And she had no doubt Marcel was there as much as he could be too, to provide a familiar face.
Henri’s expression cleared. “Good. Though before you try to suggest it, we’re not driving through the night. You’re in no condition to help, and I’m too tired.”
Shehadbeen about to suggest it, but she couldn’t in good conscience ask him to push himself beyond his limits when he’d already done so much for her. And besides, if she pounded on the Laurent door in the middle of the night, it would draw undue attention.
So she leaned her head against the window and listened to the program, letting her mind wander in time to the music. Letting her gratitude wing its way up to heaven over and again, searching her soul for more words to offer God.
Why not start with those she knew best?Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.She paused as the orchestra’s music rose higher. “Holy,” that was whathallowedmeant. Not just the Creator, some Unmoved Mover like the ancients had posited, like Jacques had thought of him. Something more. Higher. The definer of all goodness.
Thy kingdom come.A sentiment that meant something special with Christmas music playing, didn’t it? Christ came for that purpose, to bring the Father’s kingdom to earth.Thy will be done.
Her throat closed off. She remembered a day in school, when Sister Ursule was talking about doing God’s will—how it meant giving up their own. Truly relinquishing it. Zelie had leaned over to Marguerite and whispered, “He can keep his will to himself, thank you. I’d rather have my own.”
Now, she turned her face to the window so Henri wouldn’t see the tears streaming down her cheeks. She’d followed her ownwill all her life, and where had it led her? To a hasty marriage with a man who’d come to despise her. To a position that had gotten some of her dearest friends killed or imprisoned. To where she sat now, listening to the music of a man she could so easily love... but whose love she couldn’t have. What had all her life taught her, if not that? She couldn’t have everything—not loveandadventure, not musicandromance, not beingla patronneand anyone’sl’amour.
And maybe that was why. Because she always sought her own desires above God’s. Her own will above his. Maybe, until she gave that up, she’d keep failing.
But what if God asked her to give up everything—Alliance, not just Marcel? Her children? Her own future? Would she? Could she?
