Page 1 of The Last Library of Paris

Prologue

Cassie

Lisbon

May 1940

I kicked off my shoes as soon as I got through the front door, my feet aching from dancing, and flicked on a lamp.

It was warm in the apartment, stuffy with the heat of the day. So, swaying slightly, I made my way across to the window and pulled it open. Outside was a small balcony – too narrow to sit on. Wanting fresh air, I clambered onto the wide windowsill instead, with my stockinged feet resting on the tiles of the balcony.

Lisbon spread out in front of me. To my left the streets wound up to the castle. Ahead of me, I could see the inky black of the river. And to my right, was the Bairro Alto – the upper neighbourhood of the city, where fado songs drifted out into the night.

I sighed, content. It was late now and Lisbon was in darkness, but the lights of the city shone like the fireflies I’d seen once on a summer night in France, before the war.

‘We did it,’ I said quietly to myself. ‘We bloody did it.’

The chap who’d telephoned from London with the news had been calm, measured even. Unemotional.

‘Say that again, please?’ I’d said, trying to keep my voice level as I looked at Digby across the desk. ‘I think there was some interference on the line.’

‘Three hundred and thirty-eight thousand troops rescued from Dunkirk,’ he said. ‘Well done. Bloody good job.’

I had swallowed. ‘So, what now?’ I asked. ‘What happens next?’

‘Well, I think you could allow yourself a small celebration.’

I smiled. We’d definitely celebrated. That was why my head was spinning in this rather disconcerting way.

‘And after that?’

‘It’s back to business as usual.’

‘Which means …’

‘You go back to your desk and await further orders.’

Remembering those words now, I leaned against the window frame and watched the lights of Lisbon twinkling beneath me. What was next for us?

Frances

Paris

June 1940

My throat was scratchy and my head felt heavy, but I didn’t move from my spot at the window of the library. I’d been sitting there most of the day, and my rear quarters were numb from the hard window seat, but still I didn’t move. It was like watching some awful accident, or hearing a tragic story, but I couldn’t tear myself away.

I’d actually been sitting here for days now – on and off. I’d watched as the people of Paris began streaming out of the city. A river of Parisians, walking, cycling, riding in cars, in wagons, carts, vans and trucks to escape what was coming.

I didn’t blame them for leaving – following the government who’d fled to the south. But I didn’t go with them. Paris was my adopted home, but it was where I belonged. And I wasn’t French. I had no family or friends in other parts of the country whom I could call upon for help. I belonged here. In the library.

I shifted on the seat, straightening my legs and feeling the blood rush into my feet and make them tingle.

The tanks had started rumbling through the city early this morning, before the sun had properly come up. I wasn’t normally at work so early, but I’d not been able to sleep, so I’d cycled slowly through the quiet streets, just as dawn was breaking.

I’d made myself a mug of coffee and settled into my position, in time to see the first tanks arrive. They were two streets away – easily visible from my high window – and they were noisy. There was no chance anyone could miss the ominous growl of their treads on the cobbled streets. Nor the loud announcements telling Parisians to stay inside.

The flags weren’t easy to miss either. Huge black pennants adorned with swastikas, flying from the vehicles.