They were on their own, here in this medieval prison. Her, Marcel, Henri, presumably. What about Daviau and his men? Were they here too?
The chant shifted, Sister Ursule’s voice echoing in her memory again.God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Zelie pressed on the knee of her bad leg, leaned forward, and twisted away from the painful side. She knew God was here—always here. But he didn’t always choose to rescue. He let Navarre get arrested, Gabriel, Lucien, so many others. Thus far she’d been saved, yes... but what if her physical salvation had only been to guarantee her spiritual? To get her to the point of surrender?
What if her work, their work here on earth was done? What if all of Alliance was done, now that there was no more Free France?
Tears burned, and it wasn’t because of the stretch in her hip.She wasn’t ready to be finished. She wanted to hold her children again and marvel at how much they’d grown. To marry Marcel. To see what life could be like with a family built on the right foundations. She wanted to teach her daughter she could chase whatever dreams seized her heart and watch her son grow into a man who would cherish and protect those God put in his care.
She wanted to weep into her mother’s shoulder. Cheer in victory with her brother.
She wanted to see her neighborsfreeagain, truly free.
But maybe... maybe that wasn’t what God was calling her to. She went still, let her eyes slide shut. How many times must she struggle to submit her will to his? At least once more. Even if the end was near, at least once more.
Your will, Father,she said over and again in her mind.Your will, not mine. Your will on earth as it is in heaven. Your perfect will.
She sank back down to the cold stones and drew her knees to her chest.If this is my end, then still you are God. If this is my end, then take the work I’ve done already and build on it how you will. If this is my end, then make me yours.
Resting her head against her knees, she drew in a deep breath.
And if this is your beginning?
Images bombarded her, too familiar. This position, but tighter, in a mailbag. Darkness and pressure andpain, pain, pain.
She gasped and opened her eyes again, but the impressions still echoed—not memory, but words.You thought that was your end—but it was your beginning. Behold, I make all things new. I knit you together, just so, in your mother’s womb. My mercies are new every morning.
She let go of her knees, stretched out her legs. Lifted her eyes to the bars of her cell. What were the chances...?
Pushing to her feet, she turned sideways and pressed against the bars. She didn’t fit.
But then, she hadn’t fit in the mailbag either, not on her first try.
Lord?Was this her foolish imagination or his prodding?
She didn’t hear his voice this time—but something close. Keys running up a piano. Was she going mad? Imagining things? There shouldn’t be a piano in a place like this.
But it spurred her into action. She stripped off her shoes, her stockings, her skirt and blouse and put them all in a pile right by the bars. Then she sucked in a breath, drew herself up as tall and thin as she could, and did what she’d done for the mailbag. She moved one body part at a time, deliberately. A leg through—easy—then worked her good hip centimeter by centimeter, keeping her torso inside the cell.
The bars were old, rusty. Not enough to so much as budge from their moorings, but the uneven surface scraped her bare skin, biting and ripping until she had to choke back a whimper of pain. For a moment, she thought she’d be stuck there, hip wedged between the two bars. Had she not lost so much weight since the start of the war, she had no doubt she would have been. She had to angle down, straining her bad hip in a way that made it scream in protest. At last, though, at last she had her hips through. Then her torso, slipping an arm through easily and then pushing that hand against the bars for leverage.
Never had she been so grateful for the lack of curves in certain places. Biting her lip to keep from whimpering at the now-searing pain, ignoring the blood she felt trickling down her legs from her hips, she pushed, squeezed, sucked in, and soon had her body through.
Now her head. She winced in anticipation. This was going to hurt—but not like death at the hands of the Nazis would.
She thought of Blaise. Of Elise. Of Maman. Of Marcel. And then bent her head toward freedom and apologized to her ears. The metal clawed at her neck, her jaw, but she snarled back and pushed harder.
Through—she was through!
Tears splashed onto her arms as she reached back into the cell for her clothes and quickly put them on. Her neck was on fire, her ribs and hips too, blood dripping here and there down her torn and scraped skin, but she was out of the cell.
The hall had only one door that she could see, so she stole toward it, shoes in hand but not on her feet—the wooden soles would be far too loud. Holding her breath, she pressed the latch.
It opened! The guard must not have seen the need to secure this door when she was locked in a cell. Praise the Lord for that oversight on his part.
Where to go? More dark hallways stretched left and right, and her eyes couldn’t see a difference between them.
Her ears, however, picked up the notes of a familiar melody. Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto in C minor.
