Page 69 of The Librarian Spy

“London has confirmed receipt of my request.” Elaine had to force herself to keep the excitement from her voice. “But it does not guarantee—”

“I know,” Sarah said quickly. “But London.” She clasped her hands over her heart, as though locking the hope inside lest it flit away. “This is greater than I ever anticipated.”

“I will do my best,” Elaine promised.

Sarah’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Thank you.”

That night, when the sun descended in the hills beyond where the old Roman ruins lay from the ancient city of Lugdunum, a miracle happened. Soft, golden candlelight filled the windows in Lyon. There were only a few brave souls determined to engage in the celebration, but the darkened streets lit with the ethereal brilliance of their bravery.

It wasn’t a frenzy of celebratory fireworks or a procession winding up the steep hill to the basilica, but it was an outpouring of love for the Lady of Lyon with the little bit some had left to give.

Elaine strode home slowly that night, savoring the warmth lighting her way even as the bitter wind rolled off the Rhône. For the first time in so long, amid the muted observance of the Fête des Lumières, Elaine felt her grief give way to a modicum of hope.

Josette was late.

Elaine glanced discreetly at the small watch on her wrist, which revealed it was past six in the evening, long after Josette should have arrived. Secretly, Elaine hoped the young woman did not come, that Marcel managed to convince Nicole that Josette needed some time off to steady her rattled nerves.

Even as she thought it, Elaine couldn’t stifle the pinch of guilt. She didn’t blame Josette for the precariousness of her condition. It was likely anyone might suffer from such a breakdown. Everyone was on constant alert for a cold German stare that lingered too long, or a set of footsteps marching at their same pace behind them in a narrow alley, or an unknown face among the familiar. How could they not when the danger was so ubiquitous?

And yet the newspapers needed to be delivered at their respective locations. Elaine eyed the stack of newsprint, the ink so fresh, its powdery scent hung in the air.

“Is Josette coming?” she asked aloud.

Marcel’s mouth tightened in a thin line. Even if Josette did arrive at her delegated time, he likely would not agree to accept her aid.

There was pride in the prompt release of newspapers, that their team was timely, not only their production, but also in the paper’s delivery. No matter who among them might be arrested, what materials became short due to ration or otherwise. Or even whose nerves might have gotten the better of them. After having spent months being one of the many cogs in the machine of the clandestine press, Elaine had a profound need to continue the age-old tradition of printing that had peaked in Lyon during the Renaissance when the city was the main printing district in all of France.

“I’ll handle the delivery for Josette,” she volunteered. “I’ve already finished what needed to be done on the Minerva today.” The stack of papers lay in a neat row on the table beside the archaic press.

Jean lifted his head from the Linotype machine, his fingers hovering over the keys as the rapid clacking of his typing went silent. “I can do it.”

Marcel considered him for a moment. “I need the plate finalized within the hour so I can finish this print on the next paper before tomorrow.”

Meaning it was a job only Jean could do. Elaine was still clumsy on the foreign keyboard. Certainly, far too slow to complete the piece in time for Marcel to get the printing press going.

“Don’t be silly—it will take only a few minutes.” Elaine stood and pulled on her coat before Jean could insist on going in her stead. “I’ll be back before you are even done.”

In the months they’d all gotten to know one another, the men had become extraordinarily protective of Elaine. Even more so after Joseph’s death, though they’d finally stopped handling her as though she’d break like poor Josette. They always looked after her with concern—whether the possibility of arrest or suspicion from the Nazis, or like now—being loathe to send her outside amid December’s brutal freeze.

She bundled the newsprint and hid the stack in her shopping basket. “I’ll be back in time to check over the printing plate when I return.”

“You do have the sharpest eyes,” Jean said, always liberal with his approbation.

With a friendly wave over her shoulder, Elaine slipped out of the warehouse and into the shock of the winter wind. The colder it became, the harder it was to retain warmth. Bodies were too slight, fuel too scarce, and the chill too pervasive.

They all did what they could for the underground, for their persistent battle to resist their oppressors. Her part now was to deliver the papers and avoid notice from the Nazis.

An icy blast of wind made the tip of her nose burn and her eyes sting. She squinted as much as possible to minimize the discomfort while still allowing herself to see a slit of the street in front of her without crashing into a wall or falling off a curb. Easier said than done in the darkness of early winter sunsets.

The trams were down from a Resistance attack earlier that day. There was nothing for it but to walk. She would not have the newspaper late on her account.

Hurried along by the gusts, she rushed to the drop location on the outskirts of Croix-Rousse. The courtyard of the building inside was empty and dark. But then, winter was such a bleak time. Branches were stripped of their leaves to reveal skeletal limbs beneath and the sky was cast in a flat gray that reflected on the Rhône, washing the world in a bland, colorless existence.

A dim light shone on a corridor containing the buildings’ post boxes, only just illumining the dank open space cradled inside the building.

In the corner of the courtyard was a crate one might use to cart about goods or stand on to peer into a window. The wooden box seemed to have been there so long, the boards were stained dark with age and sagged in against themselves, a thick smattering of mud and grit coating the outside. Elaine slipped into the heavy shadow near the wall, lifted the crate to reveal the dry earth beneath and carefully set the papers within. When she withdrew her hand, her fingertips came away damp and filthy with a black and green organic substance she didn’t care to place.

She rubbed her hands together to clean them as best she could. Her surroundings were desolate—the chipped walls, the alcove with only one bare bulb, the illumination almost drown out by an eclipse of moths.