Page 10 of The Librarian Spy

She stared hard at Etienne, refusing to back down, tired of always being told no by Joseph. All these months of being so eager to throw herself into the effort against their occupiers and all these months he had proclaimed the Resistance to be useless. Instead, he had insisted she remain home, to wait in interminable queues and perform feats of impossibility in the kitchen with their mean food rations.

The inability to do her part against the Nazis now felt like a betrayal. Like she was not good enough to join the men and women in their brave fight.

She would not be told no now, not when her efforts might aid Joseph to freedom sooner.

“I cannot go back to my own name,” she said. “You have also mentioned I cannot remain in my home.”

Etienne’s dark eyes narrowed.

“I want to be part of the Resistance,” she said again. “I want to help Joseph.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Joseph doesn’t want you involved.”

“I’m well aware,” she said through gritted teeth.

“It is dangerous work.” Etienne rose from the small table, bumping it in his haste. Without looking at her, he turned to the sink to rinse his cup.

“I don’t care,” Hélène countered. “I’ll do anything to end this occupation, to free our soldiers and my own husband. To stop the degradation of our country and the disgusting treatment against the Jews.”

An unexpected smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Joseph said you’d say that.” Still, he tilted his head. “He will never forgive me.”

“I don’t care about that either.”

At that, Etienne gave a mischievous laugh. “My friend was right in all his fears about you, madame. How fortunate for you that I’ve always been one who seeks forgiveness rather than permission.”

She gaped at him. “Do you mean...?”

Etienne extended a hand to her and folded his long, warm fingers against hers. “Elaine Rousseau, welcome to the Resistance.”

THREE

Ava

There were many ways in which one could read. Either tucked into the corner of the sofa with a strong cup of coffee or lying in bed with the book hovering above one’s face—though admittedly this is not done without peril. But there were also unconventional methods, like while cooking dinner or crossing the street—sometimes even while brushing one’s teeth if the story was truly that engrossing.

Apparently, sequestered in the window seat aboard a metal tube barreling far too fast tens of thousands of miles above the earth was yet another way. Thank the stars for Daphne du Maurier and her gripping tale that helped Ava forget about being on an airplane.

At least for the most part.

When the plane was gliding through the sky like a bird in flight on a clear day, it was easy to lose herself in the book spread between her fingers. However, at the slightest jolt and rattle of turbulence, fear caught her in a powerful and vicious hold, reminding her how precariously her life was held aloft by only a few inches of metal. In those terrifying moments, she couldn’t help but imagine her mother and father as their plane spiraled to the earth on that fateful trip home from France. What they might have experienced, what they might have thought in those last, harrowing seconds of their lives.

Much to the disappointment of the man beside her, Ava kept the window shade snapped tightly shut. If the worst happened and the ground began rushing toward them, she did not want to bear witness to that awful event.

When they finally landed and she uncurled her death grip from the arms of her seat, it was all she could do to keep from kneeling and kissing the earth in gratitude. Knowing her new boss awaited her was a strong incentive to remain upright despite the quiver in her bones after enduring so many spikes of adrenaline throughout the journey. Instead, she ensured the felt pompadour hat with its spray of small white flowers was properly pinned over her rolled-back hair.

The air was warmer than that in Washington, DC, and the odor of jet fuel blotted out any scents of the city she might otherwise pick up. She made her way toward a cluster of people along with the other passengers of her flight.

A man with more salt than pepper in his hair held a sign with “A. Harper” written across it in a hasty, no-nonsense script. His heavy-lidded eyes were bloodshot and spoke of too many hours at work, as did the rumpled jacket of his dove-gray, three-piece suit.

“Bom dia.” She set her heavy suitcases down and smiled as she presented him with her first attempt at Portuguese in Lisbon.

He stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. Surely she hadn’t misspoken. How hard was it to mess up bidding someone good day?

After a moment, he scoffed and shook his head. “I wasn’t allowed to bring my secretary. Why is Harper allowed to bring you?”

She lifted her brows, sure she had heard him incorrectly. But no, he was still staring at her, indignant.

“I am Harper.” Jabbing a finger toward his sign, she said, “Ava Harper.”