“I know.”
Lothar motioned in the direction Marcel had been headed, and he turned, though slowly. He was going back to his hotel, which would look innocent enough. And would be awaiting Vivi... whichmightlook innocent enough, except that she’d be coming from the prison again. He could always pause at a café, though, if Lothar stayed with him that far.
“You, at least, will be all right, yes?” Lothar glanced over at him before looking forward again so he could sidestep two young boys. “You can surely get back on at the Paris Opera. Or in Marseille, if you wish to remain close to family.”
“I’ve had several offers.” He knew he didn’t sound any more enthused than he felt. He didn’twantto just go back to performing, not yet. Someday, yes, when they’d won their country back.
But not yet. Not today. Their work wasn’t over,hiswork wasn’t over. It couldn’t be... could it? Noble as music-for-the-sake-of-music was... this was still necessary.
The list of things he had to do before he left Paris, all thecontacts he had to meet and give new instructions to, since this would be his last trip across the demarcation line, marched through his mind.
Lothar gave him a small smile. “You are worried for your boys. I understand that.” He breathed a little laugh. “Do you realize that we’ve known each other a year and a half now, and I’ve still not heard you play again? It seems my only hope of doing so now is to buy a ticket wherever you take the stage once more.”
Smile,Marcel told himself.Chuckle.He managed it, barely. “Sorry about that. You always seem to happen by when we’re both short on time.”
“Mm.” Lothar paused at the next street corner, and though there was no oncoming traffic, he made no move to cross the street. “Marcel.”
Marcel halted too, and turned to face him. “Yes?”
For once, no smile carved lines into the man’s face. In fact, his countenance was so serious, Marcel scarcely recognized him. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Marcel figured the frown that overtook himalwayswould have overtaken him, even if he hadn’t already been doing what Lothar would surely callstupid. “I beg your pardon?”
Lothar leaned a bit closer. “You were friends with Gabriel Proust, weren’t you? Wasn’t that his sister you’ve been seeing?”
Father, help me.What reaction to give? Whatwashe giving, without even meaning to? He shrugged, praying it looked however it needed to. “We were at conservatory together, yes. We’d been friendly before the war, and that’s how I met Anne. Though I’ve only run into him once since I enlisted.” True. And yet a lie that carved him out.Forgive me, Gabriel. You know you were my brother, my best friend.He added a sad shake of his head. “I was sorry to hear about him. Anne told me, of course. I could scarcely believe it—neither of us could.”
Lothar said nothing, just studied him. Blinked.
Marcel lifted his brows. Blinked back. And then scoffed. “Wait—you don’t think...” He gave a low, incredulous laugh. “I wouldn’t even know how to go about such things. Music is all I know.”
Another long moment, and then finally, Lothar nodded. “Good. Rejoin your orchestra, Marcel. It will keep you exempt from the work order. And...” He paused, shook his head, and angled away. “Be careful what company you keep. I realize lovely young women must flock to you, but there are some bad actors in Marseille. Don’t get snagged in their net.”
He forced a crooked smile. “I’m neither a fish nor a lady’s man, Lothar. You needn’t worry about me.”
Lothar hummed, eased away a step. “I’ll keep an eye on the newspapers, to tell me where you’re playing. I hope our paths cross again.”
“Thank you for all you’ve done for us.” The words came out soft. And he found he meant them, strange as it seemed.
Lothar lifted a hand in farewell and strode back the way they’d just come. Marcel dragged a long, slow breath in and continued toward his hotel.
He’d barely been in his room five minutes when Vivi knocked on the door, her tote bag full of Lucien’s laundry on her shoulder. He let her in, closed the door swiftly behind her. “Please, Lord,” he whispered, crossing himself. “Let there be a message here.”
Vivi handed him one of the two seam-rippers she’d brought with her, and they each began on a cuff.
“This is encouraging,” she said, holding hers up to the light. “Far neater than my stitches were. Lucien the meticulous sort?”
“Given his stint in the army, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Marcel got to work on his, pulling back the cloth as soon as he could and finding the white of the cloth-paper inside. He worked a little more of the cuff open, enough to pull out the strip of paper. “Yes! This is Lucien’s handwriting.”
“On mine too.”
Not surprising that he’d need both strips, if he had much to say. They were only ribbons in width.
Marcel sucked in a breath as he read.
Transferred here when “new evidence” was found against me. They had my radio with initials that I gave to Blanchet. Fear he’s been captured. Encouraged to hear from you, but don’t worry for me. I’ve told them nothing and will die before I do. Vive la France!
Vivi hissed. “That’s it then, isn’t it? Your answer about Blanchet? He’s been taken.”
